IN  MEMOR1AM 
BERNARD   MOSES 


*/•; 


LIFE   THE   ACCUSER 


Life  the  Accuser 


A  Novel  in  Two  Parts 


BY 

E.  F.  BROOKE 

AUTHOR  OF  "A   SUPERFLUOUS  WOMAN 
AND   "TRANSITION  " 


New  York 
Edward    Arnold 

70  Fifth  Avenue 
1896 


BERNARD 

Copyright,  1896, 

BY  EDWARD  ARNOLD. 


29tttbersttg 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


PART   I. 

0 

HOT   SUMMER. 


783713 


Life  the  Accuser. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  Armstrong  family,  with  one  exception,  ac- 
cepted their  own  theory  of  existence  without  mis- 
giving. The  exception  rebelled.  Unfortunately 
this  single  enterprise  was  strategically  ill-managed 
and  returned  upon  the  rebel  in  suffocating  bitter- 
ness of  heart,  against  which  there  was  no  resource 
save  in  private  explosions  whose  point  was  lost  to 
the  world. 

This  is  how  it  came  about  that  on  a  fine  summer 
afternoon  in  the  year  1876,  Eliza  Armstrong,  a  girl 
of  something  over  twenty  years  of  age,  declared  to 
herself,  with  every  evidence  of  sincerity,  that  "  life 
was  not  worth  living,"  and  that  she  "  did  not  know 
why  she  had  been  born." 

The  mischief  was  that  intellectually  Eliza  Arm- 
strong's eyes  were  too  wide  open,  while  affection- 
ally  they  were  too  close  shut.  In  her  aspect  a 
similar  contradiction  prevailed.  Undeniably  pretty, 
the  effect  of  her  whole  personality  was  singularly 
inharmonious,  so  that  the  mere  regularity  of  feature 
and  the  fair  vivid  colouring  were  lost.  It  is  not 
3 


Life  the  Accuser. 

actual  beauty,  it  is  "charm"  that  succeeds;  and 
Eliza  had  not  this  "charm."  Nature  apparently 
had  not  decided  whether  to  turn  the  girl  out  a 
beauty  or  the  reverse,  a  genius  or  something  else ; 
and  in  this  incoherent  predicament  she  had  been 
thrown  upon  the  world  to  solve  the  problem  for 
herself. 

Eliza's  medium  was  a  family  of  seven  with  a 
commercial  basis. 

The  foundation  had  been  of  a  hasty  construc- 
tion, the  Armstrongs  having  barely  escaped  the 
obscurity  which  was  their  native  element.  The 
truth  was  that  the  hang  of  the  Armstrong  family 
was  as  inharmonious  as  the  personality  of  Eliza. 
The  clan  was  of  two  distinct  branches ;  the  stem 
from  which  Eliza's  father,  old  Mr.  Samuel  Arm- 
strong, had  sprung  being  that  of  simple  working- 
class  folk  who  for  generations  had  lived  and  died 
in  the  same  northern  locality,  and  whose  later  his- 
tory was  a  running  commentary  on  the  changes 
and  vicissitudes  of  the  manufacture  of  cotton  cloth. 
At  the  present  moment  most  of  the  members  wore 
the  artisan  jacket  and  worked  as  factory  hands  in 
the  near  cotton-mills,  whilst  still  inhabiting  old 
stone  cottages  wherein  their  forbears  had  driven 
hand-looms  of  their  own ;  others  of  them  netted 
poor  gains  into  the  small  tills  of  small  retail  village 
shops,  and  tasted  with  the  operatives  the  ups  and 
downs  of  fortune,  which  include  the  element  of 
"strikes;"  while  one  member  of  repute,  com- 
4 


Hot  Summer. 

monly  called  in  his  native  village  "Owd  Union 
John,"  had  curiously  risen  from  the  condition  of 
a  cotton  operative  to  that  of  a  second-hand  book- 
seller in  Cottonopolis. 

The  other  branch  of  the  clan  from  which  Mrs. 
Armstrong  had  sprung  was  of  a  much  more  genteel 
standing.  Mrs.  Armstrong  in  marrying  her  hus- 
band had  not  changed  her  name ;  she  was  his 
second  wife,  and  the  step-mother  of  his  four  chil- 
dren, Edward  and  Gilbert,  Eliza  and  Sylvia.  She 
came  from  the  master  branch  of  the  Armstrongs,  — 
from  the  class  of  the  owners  of  cotton-mills  instead 
of  the  workers  therein.  The  nature  of  the  cleav- 
age in  the  original  clan  leading  to  this  marked 
division  was  lost  in  history :  the  story  of  how  old 
Mr.  Armstrong  bridged  the  chasm  from  the  oper- 
ative to  the  master  was  a  secret  locked  in  his  own 
breast,  and  not  fully  known  even  to  his  wife. 

Eliza  had  been  taught  to  glide  skilfully  over  her 
connection  with  that  branch  of  the  Armstrong 
family  which  included  "  Owd  Union  John,"  and 
to  lay  stress  upon  her  much  more  remote  kinship 
with  the  small  stock  of  Armstrongs  who  moved  in 
the  genteel  circle  and  ruled  the  cotton-mills  from 
afar. 

"  Papa  was  partner  to  old  Mr.  Theophilus  Arm- 
strong of  Hare  barrow,  his  relation.  And  when  my 
own  mother  died,  he  married  his  partner's  daughter. 
That  is  why  my  step-mother  never  really  changed 
her  name." 

5 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Thus  ran  the  formula  from  the  lips  of  Eliza  and 
Sylvia  Armstrong.  When  Edward  the  elder  brother 
pulled  up  his  shirt-collar  and  referred  to  themselves 
as  "  belonging  to  the  rich  Armstrongs  of  the  Clough 
of  Harebarrow,  don't  you  know,"  the  family  ap- 
peared to  be  thrown  into  a  distinction  that  made 
Eliza  feel  vaguely  uneasy. 

"We're  on  promotion/'  Edward' would  say. 
"  Really,  any  day  we  're  as  good  as  the  Peels  — 
and  we  mean  to  reach  the  top.  The  Peels  began 
on  cotton." 

"  What  are  we  being  promoted  into  ? "  Eliza 
would  ask,  without  any  intention  of  being  sharp- 
tongued. 

Her  inquiry  would  be  answered  by  the  contempt 
of  silence. 

The  elegance  of  the  second  Mrs.  Armstrong,  and 
of  her  sister,  Miss  Caroline  Armstrong,  was  evidence 
of  the  Harebarrow  connection,  living  and  moving 
amidst  them.  Old  Mr.  Armstrong  had  himself  not 
advanced  beyond  a  prejudice  in  favour  of  Dissent 
and  Smiles's  Self-Help^  as  forming  the  most  reliable 
title  to  respectable  distinction  on  earth  and  a  final 
"  mansion  in  the  sky."  But  his  early  ambition  had 
set  moving  causes  which  had  issued  in  results,  in 
many  parts  wearisome  and  distasteful  to  himself. 
It  was  natural  that  the  second  Mrs.  Armstrong,  who 
was  a  very  superior  and  coldly  gentle  person,  with  a 
final  set  of  prejudices  and  a  perfect  habit  in  house- 
wifery, should  desire  to  bring  her  own  connection 
6 


Hot  Summer. 

into  as  strong  a  light  as  possible,  and  to  exercise  a 
gently  effacing  effect  upon  allusions  to  the  closer 
but  more  obscure  branch  to  which  her  husband  be- 
longed ;  and  it  was  natural  that  "  Aunt  Caroline 
Armstrong,"  the  sister  whom  she  had  taken  to  live 
with  her  upon  her  marriage,  should  aid  and  abet 
her  in  this.  Nor  was  Mr.  Armstrong  altogether 
averse  to  the  obliteration  of  his  immediate  family 
obligations ;  but  from  the  two  ladies  emanated  an 
atmosphere  of  superiority  and  nice  conduct  and 
accomplishment  which  was  chilling  and  irksome  in 
the  extreme.  Again,  they  were  Churchwomen,  and 
sniffed  at  Dissent. 

Indeed,  as  regards  religion,  Mr.  Armstrong  stood 
between  two  batteries  of  opinion.  Mrs.  Armstrong 
had  the  rigid  beliefs  of  a  strict  Evangelical,  while 
Miss  Caroline  was  supposed  to  be  "  well  read  "  and 
of  a  sceptical  tendency.  For  the  rest,  Miss  Caro- 
line sacrificed  to  convention  and  Harebarrow  by  at- 
tending church  regularly,  and  going  through  the 
service  with  an  inscrutably  bored  demeanour. 

Six  years  before  the  opening  of  this  story,  and 
probably  —  though  this  was  not  the  ostensible  rea- 
son — -  in  order  to  be  rid  of  the  two  prominent 
evidences  of  their  origin,  old  Mr.  Samuel  Arm- 
strong, acting  under  the  pressure  of  Edward,  who 
was  again  backed  by  his  step-mother,  had  con- 
sented to  migrate  from  the  cotton  district,  to  which 
from  time  immemorial  they  had  belonged,  to  a 
southern  county.  He  selected,  in  a  preliminary 
7 


Life  the  Accuser. 

visit,  a  small  estate  in  the  purchase  of  which  he  in- 
vested a  tolerable  sum  of  money.  This  estate  was 
a  quiet  bit  of  agricultural  land,  having  in  its  centre 
an  old  farmhouse  and  a  number  of  farm  buildings. 
The  land  had  been  used  for  hop  culture,  for  clover 
and  grass-growing,  and  for  the  culture  of  beans.  A 
sweet  and  homely  aroma  hung  over  it.  The  garden 
grounds,  straggling  and  picturesque,  were  full  of  old 
fruit  trees,  which  in  the  sunny  patches  of  the  spring 
and  summer  continued  punctually  to  push  out  from 
the  knotted,  lichen-covered  twigs  and  branches, 
clusters  of  blossom,  and  afterwards  glistening  rounds 
of  richly  coloured  and  sweet-tasting  fruits.  Some- 
thing in  the  homeliness  of  the  place  appealed  to  the 
heart  of  old  Mr.  Armstrong,  and  since  by  the  will 
of  his  family  and  by  the  drift  of  his  own  ambition 
he  was  being  removed  from  the  familiar  atmosphere 
of  oil,  cotton  waste,  and  machinery,  and  from  the 
grey-looking  stones  of  the  northern  village,  set  in 
stern  prose  amidst  the  uttermost  romance  of  land- 
scape scenery,  he  fastened  on  this  peaceful  farm- 
stead as  furnishing  at  least  something  consonant 
with  the  remote  reaches  of  his  inherited  nature  and 
habits. 

In  this,  however,  he  reckoned  without  his  host. 

Edward  stood  out  to  the  rest  of  the  family  as 
something  of  large  import.  He  had  been  the  idol 
of  his  father,  and  still  was  the  favourite  with  his 
step-mother  and  aunt,  who  permitted  their  refined 
opinion  to  be  added  to  from  within  the  home-circle 
8 


Hot  Summer. 

only  in  this  instance.  At  the  time  of  the  purchase 
of  the  estate  he  was  at  the  University,  and  was  ac- 
cepted by  them  as  an  authority  upon  what  was 
"correct,"  "  the  thing,"  "good  form." 

"  We  must  improve  the  place,  father,"  said 
the  young  gentleman,  when  he  heard  of  the 
purchase. 

And  his  father,  not  understanding  the  scope  of 
the  word  "  improve,"  and  believing  the  University 
standard  to  be  final,  nodded  good-naturedly. 

It  happened  that  the  ancient  farmstead  was  a 
dogged  survival  from  a  cluster  of  like  places  which 
had  been  gradually  absorbed  by  the  great  land- 
owners of  the  district,  whose  passion  for  space, 
park-growing,  and  privacy,  exercised  through  cen- 
turies of  opportunity,  had  gradually  shaped  this 
corner  of  the  country  into  a  series  of  fine  and 
mellowed  instances  of  England's  "stately  homes." 
The  estate,  for  example,  immediately  contiguous  to 
the  acres  which  old  Mr.  Armstrong  purchased,  was 
an  over-flowing  portion  of  the  immense  possessions 
of  Lord  Warrenne  in  the  neighbouring  county ;  and 
this  intruding  foot  of  some  twenty-five  acres  of  his 
land  was  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Trelyon,  his  kins- 
woman. It  was  a  beautiful  place,  and  had  received 
the  modest  name  of  "  South  Downs."  Mr.  Arm- 
strong's farmstead,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  free- 
hold, said  to  have  been  for  generations  an  irritating 
thorn  in  the  flesh  to  the  great  family  of  the  Dayn- 
trees,  who  were  lords  of  the  manor  in  this  part 
9 


Life  the  Accuser. 

of  the  county.  The  residence  of  the  Dayntrees, 
which  was  called  "The  Manor  House,"  lay  on 
the  western  side  of  two  great  commons.  These 
were  timidly  hedged  by  small  private  villas  and 
cottages,  rows  of  which  occurred  at  intervals 
between  the  woods  and  spinneys ;  no  railway  or 
station  was  permitted  in  the  neighbourhood,  but 
the  commons,  with  their  gorse  and  heath  and 
scanty  pasture,  intruding  thus  in  a  rugged  protest 
of  popular  right  amidst  the  stately  seclusion  of  the 
landed  gentry,  were  intersected  by  white  roads  over 
which  the  carriages  of  the  Families  rolled  in  their 
visitations  one  upon  another.  The  commons  were 
the  highest  lands  of  the  district,  and  to  any  one 
standing  upon  them  with  the  face  turned  westwards, 
it  was  possible  on  a  bright  clear  day  to  see  thrown 
up  against  the  sky  the  faint  tracings  of  the  roofs 
and  pinnacles  of  a  great  city — the  delicate  spirit 
and  flower  and  poetry  of  it  shadowed  with  its 
poignant  suggestion  and  solemn  romance,  as  a 
living  dream  in  the  burning  fires  of  a  western  sky. 

The  subject  of  the  purchased  land  was  spoken 
of  amongst  the  Families  when  they  met  in  casual 
social  intercourse.  It  was  felt  as  an  annoyance 
that  a  stranger  had  broken  into  the  circle  and 
snapped  up  the  land. 

"  Who 's,  Armstrong  ?  "  was  on  every  tongue. 

Nobody  knew.  He  was  not  even  an  American. 
Dayntree,  into  whose  composition  something  cos- 
mopolitan rather  than  democratic  had  entered,  said 
10 


Hot  Summer. 

he  understood  he  came  from  the  north ;  these  risen 
fellows  were  often  shrewd  enough,  and  probably 
the  place  would  be  improved. 

The  amiable  hope  was  unfortunately  short-lived ; 
the  nature  of  the  improvements  when  they  began 
exciting  the  horrified  comment  of  the  neighbour- 
hood. The  sturdy  farmstead,  with  its  sunny, 
ripened  homeliness,  lying  like  a  country  smock 
amongst  the  velvet  mantles  of  the  Parks,  was 
cleared  away  in  favour  of  a  brand-new  idea.  The 
hop-fields,  the  beans,  the  orchards  and  low  hedges 
—  in  spring  and  summer  nourishers  of  a  tangle  of 
black-thorn,  wild-rose,  convolvulus,  and  black- 
berry —  were  rooted  up ;  the  old  picturesque 
red-roofed  outbuildings,  the  rambling  and  ancient 
farmhouse,  all  were  cleared  away  amidst  dust  and 
desolation,  and  the  estate  given  by  contract  into 
the  hands  of  the  landscape  gardener,  the  modern 
architect,  and  the  newest  art  upholsterer.  The 
erasure  of  everything  which  in  the  eyes  of  old 
Mr.  Armstrong  had  made  it  worth  while  to  invest 
his  money  in  the  land,  caused  him  a  sickening 
twinge  of  the  heart-strings.  The  erection  of  a 
brand-new  mansion,  fantastically  copied  from  the 
ancient  by  the  most  modern  of  architects,  and  the 
deposit  therein  of  the  new  art  furniture  (modelled 
on  the  idea,  of  an  historic  family  in  decay)  put  the 
finishing  touch  to  his  distaste.  The  furniture 
arrived  in  vans  simultaneously  with  the  suits  of 
armour  and  second-hand  portraits,  the  whole  mis- 
ii 


Life  the  Accuser. 

cellany  being  planted  down  according  to  the  taste 
of  the  upholsterer. 

Old  Mr.  Armstrong  felt  himself  not  to  be  a 
judge,  but  his  common-sense  was  offended  by  an 
assumption  of  ancestral  armour  in  a  family  whose 
heraldic  bearing  was  at  most  a  shuttle.  For  the 
rest,  this  total  obliteration  of  all  that  was  consonant 
with  the  habitual  past,  this  transplantation  into 
surroundings  as  much  like  home  to  one  of  his 
upbringing  as  the  stage  of  a  theatre  would  be, 
struck  him  with  a  mortal  pain  and  sickness  under 
which  he  secretly  dwindled  and  pined. 

The  girls,  mere  children  at  the  time,  accepted 
the  change  without  open  criticism.  Gilbert,  a 
young  man  still  in  his  teens,  whose  career  so  far 
had  been  a  secret  downward  slide  along  the  road 
"  paved  with  good  intentions,"  felt  in  face  of  the 
new  surroundings  a  vacuity  of  resource  and  paraly- 
sis of  the  will  which  was  indescribable. 

The  two  rooms  allotted  to  Eliza  and  Sylvia 
opened  out  of  each  other,  but  the  first  night  they 
preferred  to  occupy  one  together.  Next  morning 
Eliza  waked  early.  Her  ruffled  red-gold  hair  fell 
about  the  pillow  like  poured-out  sovereigns  ;  Sylvia's 
smoother  and  less  brilliantly  coloured  locks  were 
just  visible  above  the  coverlet.  Eliza  put  out  a 
cautious  finger  and  touched  them. 

"  I  'm  wide  awake,"  said  Sylvia,  creeping  a  little 
from  under  cover,  so  that  the  light  fell  on  her 
delicate  girlish  face  and  large  inexperienced  blue 

12 


Hot  Summer. 

eyes ;  "  I  listened  ever  so  long  for  the  humming  of 
the  mills,  and  then  remembered." 

"  We  shall  never  hear  that  again,"  said  Eliza, 
plaintively ;  "  I  Ve  had  bad  dreams,  I  'm  all 
worked  up.  This  newness  and  the  new  people 
about  terrify  me." 

u  It 's  best  not  to  think,"  said  Sylvia,  crisply. 

"  That 's  all  very  well  for  you,  who  are  so  pretty, 
and  slide  about  like  an  eel.  You  don  7t  know  what 
it  is  to  feel  quite  the  largest  and  most  fixed  thing  in 
a  room.  And  to  know  that  your  hair  burns  under 
the  chandeliers  like  flames." 

"  Well,  oil  it,  and  plait  it  tighter." 

"But  tell  me,  Sylvia,  do  you  remember  what' 
papa  said  was  the  lord  of  the  manor's  name?  " 

"Mr.  Dayntree,  he  called  him.  The  Rector's 
name  is  Mr.  Woodruff." 

Eliza  sat  up  in  bed. 

"  Don 't  you  remember  the  red  strawberry 
emery  cushion  that  I  keep  in  my  treasure- 
box?"  asked  she. 

"Yes.     4  Constant's  cushion'  you  call  it." 

"  I  seem  to  know  where  I  am  quite  suddenly," 
said  Eliza.  "  Constantia  is  Mrs.  Dayntree.  Miss 
Mincing  Racker's  school,  where  I  was  sent  when  I 
was  such  a  tiny  little  mite,  is  on  the  other  side  this 
county.  Constantia's  carriage  came  sometimes  on 
Saturdays  to  take  me  away  a  long  distance.  And  I 
lised  to  stay  all  Sunday  and  play  with  a  boy  called 
Evan.  He  was  a  dear  little  boy,  Sylvie.  I  remem- 
'3 


Life  the  Accuser. 

her  the  swell  of  the  old  cabinet  in  the  drawing- 
room  that  he  used  to  open  and  show  me.  I  sat  on 
a  high  chair  to  reach  it,  and  Evan  held  me  on  lest 
I  should  fall.  It  was  because  he  called  Mrs.  Dayn- 
tree  l  Constantia  '  that  I  did  so  too." 

"Who  was  Evan?" 

"  I  don't  know,  except  that  he  belonged  to  the 
Dayntrees." 

"  Mother  and  Aunt  Caroline  will  be  glad  that 
you  know  the  Dayn trees." 

"  But  I  don't !  "  said  Eliza,  exceedingly  alarmed. 
"  And  I  dread  the  idea  of  them.  I  am  terrified  — 
monstrously  terrified  —  of  all  these  grand  new 
people.  It  would  be  better  to  be  back  in  our 
old  home." 


Hot  Summer. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  other  ways  than  in  the  matter  of  his  present 
exile  amidst  art  upholstery,  Mr.  Armstrong  had  set 
causes  going  that  he  wot  not  of.  The  effect  had 
already  been  particularly  exemplified  in  the  char- 
acter of  Eliza,  and  was  destined  to  fulfil  its  influence 
in  her  fate. 

Mr.  Armstrong  was  in  this  instance,  however, 
again  merely  an  ignorant  agent.  It  had  been  his 
early  boast  that  he  could  afford  his  children  "  the 
best  of  everything;"  by  this  he  meant  that  he 
could  afford  for  them  to  do  and  have  things  which 
were  not  usual  in  his  own  class,  but  which  he 
remarked  were  common  in  a  class  of  life  to  which 
he  did  not  belong.  He  had  no  idea  that  the 
things  he  coveted  were  the  accidents  and  not  the 
essentials  of  that  other  class.  Expense,  again,  was 
Mr.  Armstrong's  standard  of  probable  excellence. 
His  limited  knowledge  gave  him  no  other  criterion. 
But  in  the  days  when  his  children  were  young  it 
was  a  much  more  difficult  thing  to  arrive  at  a 
proper  distinction  of  "  the  best "  from  the  shoddy 
and  showy  than  it  is  now,  because  it  required  a 
preliminary  culture  to  know  of  it  at  all.  In  matters 


Life  the  Accuser. 

of  education  this  was  pre-eminently  the  case ; 
education,  especially  education  for  girls,  as  offered 
in  the  market,  being  an  inconceivably  spurious  and 
shamelessly  fraudulent  affair.  In  this  era  of  certifi- 
cates and  inspection,  and  of  the  ideal  of  "  a  ladder 
from  the  Board  School  to  the  University,"  the  most 
ignorant  man  who  is  sincerely  desirous  of  educat- 
ing his  children,  may  toss  them  blindfold  into  the 
educational  mill  and  be  pretty  certain  that  he  is 
subjecting  them  to  some  genuine  training,  and  that 
they  will  come  out  in  the  end  with  at  least  some 
useful  acquirement. 

In  the  days  when  the  Armstrong  girls  were 
children  this  was  not  so.  "  Dotheboys  "  schools 
might  have  been  abolished ;  Dothegirls  schools 
were  rampant  in  every  county  as  respectable  and 
established  institutions.  An  expensive  girls'  school 
was,  in  the  vast  majority  of  instances,  merely  a  last 
resort  of  distressed  gentlewomen,  who  saw  their 
way  to  amassing  "  an  independence  "  at  the  expense 
of  credulous  middle-class  parents,  the  crop  of  risen 
families  springing  up  like  mushrooms  in  the  forcing- 
bed  of  the  textile  industries,  affording  a  fine  field 
for  these  ignorant  and  narrow  persons  to  pasture  on. 
It  was  easy  for  the  distressed  gentlewoman  to 
impose  on  rich  vulgarity  by  an  assumption  of 
refinement,  and  in  return  for  substantial  cheques 
to  starve  the  minds  (sometimes  the  bodies)  and 
oppress  the  spirits  of  female  children  by  a  "gen- 
teel" diet  and  a  routine  of  inanities,  puerilities, 
16 


Hot  Summer. 

vile  pruderies,  and  petty  cruelty.  It  was  in  those 
days  possible  to  pay  two  or  three  hundred  pounds 
a  year  for  a  daughter's  education,  and  to  bring  her 
out  at  the  end  not  only  with  far  less  mental  equip- 
ment than  is  now  possessed  by  a  child  of  the 
people  in  the  standards  of  the  free  Board  Schools, 
but  with  her  health  injured  and  her  character  warped. 
Years  ago,  when  Eliza  was  a  mite  of  six  when 
they  still  lived  in  the  North,  and  when  the  second 
Mrs.  Armstrong  was  making  her  first  experiments 
within  her  husband's  household,  the  child  had  been 
sent  away  from  home  by  her  step-mother's  advice, 
to  a  fashionable  boarding-school  for  young  ladies  in 
the  same  distant  county  to  which  the  whole  family 
afterwards  migrated.  The  experiment  proved  to 
Eliza  as  a  life-long  fatality.  Some  natures  thrive 
rather  better  amid  conventions  than  amid  freer 
surroundings.  Eliza  did  not;  her  nature  would 
neither  fit  into  nor  develop  amid  conven- 
tions, and  dating  from  that  disastrous  school- 
experiment,  a  sense  of  scare,  timidity,  and 
failure  attached  itself  to  her  character  as  the 
shadow  to  the  man.  The  horrors  of  Miss 
Mincing  Racker's  establishment  for  young  ladies 
were,  however,  intermingled  with  pleasanter  mem- 
ories, for  example,  those  which  she  connected 
with  the  strawberry  emery  cushion.  It  happened 
that  on  a  summer  morning  when  Eliza's  second 
school-term  was  coming  to  a  close,  two  beautiful 
young  women  of  the  county  paid  the  fashionable 
2  17 


Life  the  Accuser. 

boarding-school  a  visit.  The  elder  of  the  two 
was  Mrs.  Norman  Dayntree,  a  young  wife  who 
was  not  yet  the  mother  of  children ;  the  other  was 
her  younger  sister,  Miss  Irene  Severne.  They  were 
both  in  the  hey-day  of  youth,  beauty,  and  success, 
and  their  personalities  were  such  as  to  make  one 
tremble  lest  any  alteration  in  the  scheme  of  things 
should  for  ever  deprive  the  world  of  just  that  turn 
of  human  sweetness  and  gracious  demeanour. 

Constantia  Dayntree  was  dark,  but  not  too  dark, 
tall  and  noble-looking.  She  had  the  serenity  of 
happiness  in  which  her  mere  physical  beauty 
merged  and  melted  as  in  something  more  exquisite 
than  itself;  she  was  of  the  very  essence  of  womanli- 
ness, and  gave  it  away  at  every  turn  of  hand  and 
face.  She  had  the  primal  qualities  which  still  sur- 
vive in  womanhood,  qualities  out  of  which  the 
world  grows,  upon  which  it  rests  and  lives,  and  with 
which  perfected  it  will  fall  asleep  at  last  as  a  child 
that  is  comforted. 

Irene  carried  with  her  a  pair  of  dove-like  eyes, 
the  quiet  manner  of  one  who  took  her  own  course 
in  preference  to  that  of  others,  and  even  as  early  as 
that,  a  dry  humorous  twitch  of  a  smile  upon  a 
gentle  pair  of  lips. 

This  was  the  vision  that  broke  suddenly  on  the 
lack-lustre  eyes  of  a  school-room  full  of  miserable 
"  young  ladies  "  who  on  a  hot  summer  afternoon 
bent  wearily  over  the  ridiculous  studies  which  formed 
the  scheme  of  education  in  the  establishment. 
18 


Hot  Summer. 

The  door  had  been  opened  by  one  of  the  "  gen- 
tlewomen," a  middle-aged     spinster  with  all  the 
attributes   formerly   connoted   by  the  word.     She 
was  small  and  hard  as  a  dried  chip,  her  thin  grey 
hair  was  rolled  under  a  cap  in  two  curls  on  either 
side  her  churchman's  brow,  and  fastened  in  securely 
by  two  side-combs  ;  on  her  bitter  narrow  mouth 
was  for  the  moment  a  false,  forced  smile.     She  pre- 
ceded her  two  guests,  and  opening  the  door  led 
them   into  a  close  and   faded  atmosphere,  which 
seemed   to  smite   them   in   the   face  with   stifling 
unwholesomeness,  both  physical  and  mental.     The 
room  was  a  large  and  fine  one  (for  show  was  every- 
where in  the  programme),  and  a  row  of  windows 
looked  towards  the  west.     Through  the  unopened 
glass   fell   great   sunbeams   down   which   the   dust 
sailed,  and  at  the  desks  beneath,  on  wooden  stools 
without  backs,  in  excruciatingly  upright   postures, 
.pined   and    panted  the    budding    girlhood  which 
should  have  been  lying  full  length  on  the  fragrant 
lawn,  or  reposing  outside  in  hammocks,  or  exercis- 
ing its  strength  (as  lads  do  at  that  hour)  in  cricket, 
boating,  climbing  trees,  or  sports  of  any  kind.     But 
neither  good  sense,  a  knowledge  of  hygiene,  or 
sympathy  with   the  impulses  of  active  youth,  was 
in  the  programme  of  the  distressed  gentlewoman, 
nor  anywhere  lodged  in  her  little  brain.     Amongst 
the  rows  of  ill-natured,  fatigued  faces  one  girl  was 
distinguished  from  the  rest  because  she  happened 
to  be   walking  from   a  table    (behind  which  sat 
19 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Mademoiselle  "  in  state)  back  to  her  desk.  A 
sulky  flush  came  to  her  cheek  as  the  visitors 
appeared  on  the  threshold,  and  she  made  a  dart  to 
her  stool. 

The  false  smile  on  the  "gentlewoman's"  face 
changed  to  an  acrimonious  twist. 

"Miss  Bryant,  stand  out!"  cried  she,  in  a  harsh 
tone  of  command. 

The  girl  thus  addressed  dived  her  hand  under 
the  desk  and  made  a  pull  at  her  stocking,  and  then 
sulkily  obeyed.  All  the  other  "  young  ladies  "  sus- 
pended their  work  and  stared,  a  trifle  of  interest 
enlivening  their  cross  and  jaded  faces.  The  unfor- 
tunate Miss  Bryant  being  now,  in  obedience  to  the 
stiff  directing  forefinger  of  the  "gentlewoman," 
planted  conspicuously  in  a  bare  space  on  the  floor, 
exhibited  the  "  elastics  "  of  the  thin  shoes  dragging 
loose  behind  her,  while  a  soiled  white  stocking  slip- 
ping from  the  garter  fell  over  one  ankle.  She  had  an 
unconquerable  sin  of  untidiness ;  and  the  hasty  snatch 
underneath  the  desk  had  not  availed  to  pull  the 
stocking  back  over  her  knee.  The  "gentlewoman " 
indicated  the  lapse  by  a  wave  of  one  hand,  which 
she  afterwards  brought  back  into  contact  with  the 
other  in  a  finished  gesture  of  disdain  peculiarly 
exasperating  to  the  victim. 

"An   exhibition   of    disorder.     Return   to   your 

desk,  Miss  Bryant.     Miss  Marsh,  kindly  remember 

that   Miss   Bryant   loses   her   mark   for   conduct." 

Then  in  a  more  confidential  tone,  and  changing  the 

20 


Hot  Summer. 

bitterness  of  her  lip  back  to  the  false  smile,  she 
turned  to  Constantia, — 

"I  always  tell  my  dear  girls  that  to  be  lien 
chaussee,  bien  gantee,  et  Men  coiffee  is  the  mark  of  a 
true  lady/'  said  she. 

Mrs.  Dayntree  did  not  seem  to  hear  her.  Shak- 
ing off  the  shy  and  startled  feeling  with  which  she 
had  hesitated  on  the  threshold  of  this  academy  of  the 
rich  middle-class,  she  advanced  amongst  the  rows 
of  Unfortunates.  She  spoke  first  to  a  girl  whose 
swollen  glands  were  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief  that 
seemed  to  frame  her  sickly  face  in  woe.  A  good 
many  of  the  young  ladies  watched  the  easy  grace 
of  her  movements,  and  devoured  the  details  of  her 
apparel  with  the  critical  envy  born  of  their  educa- 
tion ;  a  few  "  favourites,"  whose  ineradicable  vanity 
had  been  pampered  by  the  system,  pursed  their 
lips.  Constantia  reached  the  sulky  victim  of  the 
untidy  stocking ;  she  slipped  the  embroidered  scarf 
which  it  was  the  fashion  to  wear  about  the  person 
from  her  own  shoulders,  and  placed  it  on  those  of 
the  girl. 

"  Do  take  this  ! "  said  she,  in  the  voice  of  one 
who  asks  a  favour.  "  It  suits  your  pretty  face  so 
well.  You  are  Irish,  I  think,  from  your  nice-sound- 
ing name?  I  love  the  Irish." 

She  was  gone  before  either  the  girl  or  the  other 
pupils  could  recover  their  surprise,  and  returned  to 
the  side  of  her  sister.  Irene  laid  her  hand  on  her 
arm. 

21 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"Constantia,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice,  "look 
there ! " 

In  a  far  corner  of  the  room,  with  her  face  turned 
from  the  windows  and  directed  to  a  blank  space 
of  wall,  stood  a  tiny  creature  between  seven 
and  eight,  whose  red-gold  hair  burned  in  the  sun- 
light. She  was  holding  in  her  little  hands  a  long 
heavy  pole ;  it  was  placed  behind  her  shoulders, 
under  her  armpits  and  within  the  hollow  of  the 
elbow,  her  mites  of  hands  being  turned  backwards 
at  the  wrist  to  clutch  the  instrument  of  torture  as 
well  as  they  could  in  the  excruciating  position. 
Her  face,  heavy  and  white,  drooped  forward,  and 
her  lids  were  closed  in  pain  and  exhaustion ;  she 
stood  now  on  one  leg  and  now  on  another ;  her 
breath  came  in  difficult  gasps,  and  her  look  was  of 
stupefied  misery;  she  seemed  to  be  unaware  of 
what  was  going  on  in  the  room  before  her. 

Lost  to  consciousness  of  the  outside  world  the 
child  certainly  was,  for  she  was  tempering  the 
cruelty  of  her  position  by  an  absorbing  and  imagi- 
native day-dream.  Her  little  spirit  had  escaped 
from  the  dull  school-room  with  its  faded  atmos- 
phere, and  was  out  in  the  open  air,  amongst  green 
trees  and  green  places  and  gentle  breezes,  that 
turned  the  burning  sun — just  now  so  dismally 
smiting  her  red-gold  head  —  into  a  joy. 

"Cool  grass  to  roll  in,"  said  she  to  herself; 
"plenty  of  primroses,  and  nice  baskets  to  put  them 
in.  And  nobody  will  gather  a  big  mother  primrose 
22 


Hot  Summer. 

when  there  is  a  little  one  for  it  to  take  care  of.  I 
shall  have  a  basket  on  my  arm,  and  the  big  girls 
won't  take  it  from  me.  Everybody  will  have  a 
basket.  Then  there  will  be  a  bank,  and  we  shall 
know  from  the  smell  that  violets  —  white  ones  — 
are  hidden  somewhere.  And  we  shall  begin  to  look. 
They  will  hide  under  the  leaves  as  if  it  was  a  game. 

"They  don't  mind  being  gathered;  it  doesn't 
hurt;  they  only  hide  because  it  is  fun  to  play  with 
us.  And  nobody  will  snatch.  If  I  find  one,  a  big 
girl  won't  say,  '  Now,  Miss,  I  saw  that  first.' 

"  And  in  the  grassy  place  under  the  wild  crab- 
tree,  there  will  be  a  table-cloth  spread,  and  cups 
and  plates  on  it  —  white  cups  with  pretty  blue 
speckles.  And  somebody  —  like  a  nurse,  and  not 
like  a  governess — will  be  spreading  out  our  tea. 
She  shall  have  a  cap  on,  and  round  cheeks,  with  a 
little  hole  in  one  when  she  laughs,  and  she  will 
smile  all  the  time.  And  Pollie  Wimpenny  will  be 
climbing  the  crab-tree,  and  the  nurse  won't  mind 
at  all.  Pollie  Wimpenny  will  peep  down  from  the 
leaves  with  her  eyes  twinkling,  and  will  say  :  '  Little 
Eliza,  you  try  too  !  It  is  so  nice  up  here.  I  'm  a 
bird  in  a  nest.'  And  the  birds  will  sing. 

"And  then  the  nurse  will  say,  'Tea!  Tea! 
Tea ! '  and  clap  her  hands  as  if  it  were  a  bell,  and 
everybody  will  come  running.  And  Pollie  will 
slide  out  of  the  tree  with  green  smudges  on  her 
stockings.  And  it  won't  matter.  Tea  will  be 
lovely." 

23 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Here  the  little  dreamer  sighed  deeply  because  of 
physical  pain,  and  drooped  her  head  lower,  and 
stood  on  the  left  leg  instead  of  the  right,  her  body  all 
falling  to  one  side  because  of  the  weight  of  the  pole. 

"  There  will  be  bread  and  butter  —  plenty.  And 
jam.  Not  sour  gooseberry,  but  something  else. 
Strawberry  probably.  And  a  sugar  cake,  that  nurse 
will  cut  into  slices.  And  Miss  Mincing  Racker 
won't  be  there  to  make  me  say  with  her  eye,  4  Not 
any  more,  thank  you,'  when  I  'm  feeling  hungry. 
Nurse  will  hand  the  plate  round,  and  say :  '  Take 
a  piece  of  cake,  little  Eliza.  Two  pieces.'  And  I 
sha*  n't  feel  ashamed.  Two  pieces  for  all  of  us. 

"There  won't  be  a  Miss  Mincing  Racker.  She 
will  have  gone  into  a  picture.  She  will  be  one  of 
the  Inquisitors  in  Fox's  '  Book  of  Martyrs/  and 
she  can't  get  out  from  between  the  leaves  ever 
again.  And  when  she  is  nothing  but  a  picture, 
Sylvie  and  I  may  pick  out  her  eyes  —  with  a  pin, 
just  like  we  pick  out  the  Inquisitors'  eyes  —  with- 
out being  punished.  We  may  do  it  on  Sunday 
afternoon,  when  we  have  our  clean  pinafores  on, 
and  are  allowed  to  look  at  '  The  Book  of  Martyrs ' 
and  '  Pilgrim's  Progress,'  because  it  will  be  a  reli- 
gious game. 

"  Nurse  will  say :  '  Two  pieces,  Pollie  Wim penny  ! 
Two  pieces,  Adeline  Bryant.' 

"There  won't  be  a  Miss  Mincing  Racker.  And 
there  won't  be  God.  Because  if  there  were,  we 
should  know  it  would  have  to  come  to  an  end, 
24 


Hot  Summer. 

and  there  would  be  church,  and  hard  benches  to 
sit  on,  and  the  Litany  and  the  Ten  Commandments, 
and  a  long  sermon,  and  an  ache  in  my  back.  But 
I  think  there  might  be  angels.  Not  too  close,  lest 
they  dazzle.  And  as  it 's  very  hot  "  —  the  poor  head 
twisted,  to  get  out  of  the  sun — u  there  will  be  a 
sound  of  a  brook  under  the  hedge,  and  under  the 
plank  on  the  stile,  as  if  someone  was  laughing  all 
the  time.  And  perhaps  — perhaps  —  if  nurse  would 
let  us  —  we  might,  just  when  the  angels  were  n't 
looking  —  we  might  take  off  our  shoes  and  stockings 
and  paddle  ! " 

Thus  had  run  the  child's  dream,  for  quarter  of 
an  hour  at  least,  during  the  infliction  of  the  pole 
punishment. 

The  two  sisters  walked  up  to  her.  The  gentle- 
woman followed,  with  a  sour  look  of  disgust  on  her 
lips. 

"  Little  one  ! "  said  Constantia,  in  a  motherly 
voice. 

The  child's  head  simply  drooped  lower,  in  in- 
creased stupefaction.  That,  of  course,  was  part  of 
the  dream.  The  gentlewoman  tried  her  method. 
There  was  hate  in  her  eye  as  she  did  so  —  grown- 
up hatred  of  a  child.  She  darted  her  hard  hand 
out  with  a  well-directed  prod  on  to  the  little  crea- 
ture's aching  backbone  ;  starting  with  sensitive  pain, 
the  mite  drew  herself  up  suddenly  to  impossible 
rigidity,  and  opened  her  eyes  wide  in  a  frightened 
stare.  When  she  became  aware  of  the  two  new 
25 


Life  the  Accuser. 

faces  watching  her,  the  innocent  and  sinless  crea- 
ture flushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair  with  an  unut- 
terable and  indescribable  look  of  abject  guilt.  At 
the  same  time  her  eyes,  unflinching  and  steady, 
gazed  deep  into  those  of  Constantia,  and  they  had 
a  look  as  though  drinking. 

"  Why  are  you  standing  in  this  corner  and  in 
this  position?"  asked  the  latter  gently,  without 
more  ado  relieving  the  child  from  the  pole. 

"  Speak  the  truth,  Miss  Eliza.  Don't  prevari- 
cate," put  in  the  gentlewoman. 

The  pale  frightened  eyes  veered  a  moment  in 
the  direction  of  the  voice,  and  then  returned  to 
Constantia. 

"  I  poke"  murmured  she,  in  a  miserable  tone  of 
self-confession. 

"  Do  you  ! "  said  Irene  suddenly,  kneeling  down 
on  the  floor  and  clasping  the  little  thing  in  her  arms. 
"  So  do  I !  I  always  poked  when  I  was  a  child. 
Is  it  the  fire  or  your  chin,  you  mean  ?  " 

The  little  victim  laughed  shrilly. 

"  Don't  scream,  Miss  Eliza  !  a  little  lady  never 
makes  a  noise  like  that,"  put  in  the  gentlewoman, 
with  a  sneer. 

"Do  you  know,  Eliza,"  said  Irene,  "we  are 
going  to  ask  Miss  Mincing  Racker  to  give  you  all 
half-a-holiday  this  beautiful  afternoon.  Where  would 
you  like  to  go  and  play  ?  " 

"  Speak  the  truth  ! "  again  put  in  the  gentlewoman 
threateningly. 

26 


Hot  Summer. 

Eliza  closed  her  eyes  obediently,  and  thought. 

"The  primrose  wood  to  gather  primroses,"  an- 
swered she,  opening  them  again. 

"  Now,  Miss  Eliza,  don't  be  stupid.  You  know 
there  are  no  primroses  this  time  of  the  year,"  put 
in  the  gentlewoman. 

'''Then  violets,"  murmured  the  child,  crestfallen. 

"  Nor  violets  either.  Try  to  think"  put  in  the 
gentlewoman. 

The  child,  thus  adjured,  dropped  back  into  a  con- 
dition of  distressed  stupefaction.  The  gentlewoman 
assisted  her  with  another  prod. 

"You  have  been  asked  what  you  would  like  by 
these  ladies  who  are  good  enough  to  take  notice  of 
you,  Miss  Eliza.  Don't  show  obstinacy,  but  answer 
at  once." 

The  pale  frightened  eyes  wandered  from  face  to 
face.  The  little  mind  had  still  not  cleared  its  dream 
away ;  it  remained  midway  between  that  world  of 
its  imagining  and  this  cruel  place  of  prods,  and 
bullying,  and  pain,  and  confusion.  She  was  un- 
aware of  the  anxious  waiting  of  all  the  elder  girls 
upon  her  choice.  Fast  between  her  dream  and  her 
terror,  she  had  no  resources. 

"Tea  —  tea,"  faltered  she;  "jam  and  cake. 
Two  pieces." 

The  gentlewoman  turned  a  little  pale.     Her  lips 

seemed  to  quiver.     The  elder  girls  shrugged  their 

shoulders  and  pursed  their  lips.     The  child  stared 

abjectly  - —  the  picture  of  heavy  stupidity.    .The  gen- 

27 


Life  the  Accuser. 

tlewoman  laid  her  hard  nipping  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der. She  turned  towards  the  two  distinguished 
guests. 

"Miss  Eliza  was  always  a  greedy,  obstinate  child," 
said  she.  "  I  do  not  ask  you  to  excuse  her.  She 
is  selfish,  and  thinks  of  no  one  but  herself.  Pray 
take  no  notice  of  her.  Pray  address  your  kind  in- 
quiry to  some  child  with  a  less  vulgar  mind.  Miss 
Eliza,  you  have  committed  a  breach  of  manners." 

As  she  spoke,  the  nipping  hand  tightened  and 
the  arm  administered  a  shake  to  the  exhausted 
frame. 

"  Irene,"  said  Constantia,  quickly,  "  let  us  go 
home." 

Neither  sister  saw  the  final  fate  of  Eliza  that  day. 
Hate  hunted  the  tender  spirit  upstairs  to  bed  in 
the  beautiful  early  hours  of  the  evening ;  falseness 
harried  the  natural  candour  and  clearness  of  the 
young  soul ;  threats  cowed  her  nerve  ;  sneers  cut  at 
her  self-respect ;  a  vile  parody  of  religion  swooped 
like  an  obscene  thing  upon  all  the  singing  birds  of 
her  sweet  fancy ;  joy,  natural  confidence,  and  inno- 
cence itself  swooned  away  in  face  of  that  bitter 
countenance  of  incarnated  narrowness. 

"  What  have  I  done,  Miss  Mincing  Racker  ? 
What  have  I  done  ?  "  piped  the  anxious  little  voice 
over  and  over.  And  for  answer  there  was  nothing 
but,  as  it  were,  the  whirling  before  her  frightened 
eyes  of  two  bobbing  grey  curls  and  a  hard,  enraged 
face —  too  ugly  for  childhood  to  see  —  accompanied 
28 


Hot  Summero 

by  the  reiterated  and  torturing  prods  of  an  insulting 
hand. 

Left  alone  in  the  far  corner  of  a  dreary  bedroom 
whence  she  could  not  see  the  garden,  with  a  heart 
beating  in  the  perplexed  inarticulate  passion  of 
childhood,  little  Eliza  heard  the  steps  of  her  school- 
mates passing  out  to  the  treat  the  guests  had  secured 
them ;  she  heard  also  the  mocking  voices  —  the 
voices  of  those  insensibly  trained  to  falseness  and 
unkindness  —  that  cried  in  the  corridors  — 

"  Miss  Eliza  asked  for  two  pieces  of  cake  for  her- 
self! Two  pieces  of  cake  !  Greedy  Miss  Eliza !  " 

One  hung  her  head  and  pondered  silently,  and 
fingered  the  gay  scarf  she  wore  about  her -neck. 
That  was  the  girl  with  the  untidy  stocking.  She 
thought  she  would  give  Miss  Eliza  her  new  pencil- 
case  to-morrow. 

Upstairs  the  child  sat  on  her  bed,  her  chin  on 
her  knees,  her  eyes  startled  and  too  wide-open, 
staring  at  the  bare  white  walls  and  the  dusty  pane 
until  they  darkened.  She  understood  nothing  of 
what  had  happened,  had  no  power  to  discriminate, 
and  was  too  wounded  in  her  sensitiveness  to  hurl 
defiance  at  the  injustice  done  her.  The  air  still 
rang  with  hootings,  with  the  pointless  upbraidings 
of  Miss  Mincing  Racker,  and  the  assurances  of  the 
wrathful  sneers  of  God  in  heaven. 

What  seven-year-old  child  of  vivid  imagination 
could  hold  up  against  this  accumulated  testimony 
to  the  abject  disgustfulness  of  her  own  nature? 
29 


Life  the  Accuser. 

The  white  lids  closed  once  or  twice  over  the  staring 
eyes ;  but  they  shot  open  again,  gazing  vaguely  at 
the  spot  of  fading  light,  while  slowly  within  her  ten- 
der innocence  the  courage  of  innocence  died  out 
and  the  damnable  lying  horror  of  "  a  sense  of  sin  " 
was  born.  Not  even  young  Mrs.  Dayntree's  after 
kindness  could  save  her. 

Such  was  the  particular  effect  which  the  distressed 
gentlewoman,  in  pursuit  of  ah  "  independence  "  by 
the  simple  expedient  of  farming  out  the  souls  of 
children,  achieved  in  the  case  of  Eliza.  For  the 
rest  the  result  was  not  so  evident.  The  second 
Mrs.  Armstrong  and  Aunt  Caroline  voted  the  girl  a 
failure"  when,  at  seventeen,  she  finally  returned  home 
after  a  ten  years'  course  of  various  spinsters'  "  Es- 
tablishments for  Young  Ladies,"  without  having 
acquired  distinction  in  manners,  or  readiness  at  the 
proprieties,  or  even  the  art  of  "  playing  the  piano." 


Hot  Summer. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Miss  MINCING  RACKER,  her  avarice  and  her 
petty  wickedness,  had  long  been  gathered  to  igno- 
minious shades,  but  the  county  families  remained. 

One  of  Miss  Mincing  Racker's  methods  had  been 
to  refer  to  these  established  names,  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  to  be  inferentially  contemptuous  to  the  rising 
middle-folk  on  whom  she  fed ;  this  was  inexpres- 
sibly galling  to  the  young  creatures  she  farmed,  and 
whom  she  suppressed  beneath  her  narrow  thumb ; 
probably  it  was  at  the  basis  of  Eliza's  dread. 

The  transplantation  of  the  Armstrongs  to  the  dis- 
trict could  hardly  be  called  a  success  as  time  went 
on.  There  was  a  degree  of  truth  in  Mr.  Arm- 
strong's notion  that  the  difference  between  one 
class  and  another  was  a  matter  of  expenditure,  his 
error  lay  in  considering  it  from  the  point  of  view  of 
quantity  instead  of  quality.  Moreover,  there  are 
things  which  no  expenditure  and  scarcely  any  study 
can  acquire.  The  Families,  after  one  or  two 
attempts,  held  nervously  aloof;  and  the  attempt 
would  hardly  have  been  made  had  it  not  been  for 
the  singular  exception  of  Eliza.  Mrs.  Norman 
Dayntree  and  Mrs.  Trelyon  led  the  running  in  the 
31 


Life  the  Accuser. 

neighbourhood  ;  to  be  in  either  of  their  sets  was  to 
be  in  every  other.  Owing  to  the  accident  related  in 
the  last  chapter,  Eliza  found  herself  welcomed  in 
the  first  circle ;  another  chance  brought  her  into  the 
second. 

Until  the  year  1875  the  Trelyons  had  been  rep- 
resented in  the  neighbourhood  by  Mrs.  Trelyon, 
who  had  taken  the  pleasant  estate  known  as  "  South 
Downs"  some  seventeen  years  previously.  Mrs. 
Trelyon  was  the  wife  of  the  Honourable  Leonard 
Trelyon,  who  was  Governor  of  one  of  the  English 
Colonies ;  he  had  resided  abroad  for  years,  in  a 
land  presumably  too  sultry  and  too  distant  for  Mrs. 
Trelyon's  health.  A  lady  thus  content  to  be  sep- 
arated by  a  hemisphere  from  her  husband  might 
easily  become  the  target  for  gossip,  but  Mrs.  Trel- 
yon's selection  of  a  residence  had  silenced  tongues. 
A  faint  rustle  of  arrowy  talk,  rumours  shaken  from 
arched  eyebrows,  suggested  rather  than  expressed, 
had  clustered  about  her  name  for  a  short  period  at 
the  time  of  Mr.  Trelyon's  departure  abroad.  No 
one  quite  knew  what  had  been  the  relation  between 
himself  and  his  wife,  —  the  latter  a  beautiful  person 
existing  in  a  zone  of  lassitude.  A  hitch  was  sus- 
pected, but  her  discreet  choice  of  residence  stilled 
the  beginnings  of  inquiry.  For  her  withdrawal  from 
the  world  to  live  under  the  immediate  protection  of 
her  august  relative  Lord  Warrenne  suggested  rather 
a  timid  clinging  to  propriety  than  a  wandering 
course.  At  Lord  Warrenne's  time-mellowed  habi- 
32 


Hot  Summer. 

tation,  with  its  moat,  its  antiquities,  its  Anne-a- 
Boleyn  chamber,  and  historical  place  in  the 
country's  history,  she  had  been  an  honoured  guest 
before  coming  into  residence  at  "  South  Downs," 
and  a  string  of  notable  and  titled  persons  drove  ten- 
tatively to  her  door  and  left  their  cards  upon  her 
hall-table.  Having  come  the  first  time,  they  came 
yet  again  a  second,  to  enjoy  (upon  others)  the 
amusing  sting  which  she  hid  under  her  velvet  voice, 
and  used  with  an  innocent  uplift  of  her  eyes. 

No  one  for  a  moment  was  deceived  by  Mrs. 
Trelyon's  occasional  air  of  the  ingenue.  It  came  to 
be  regarded  as  the  precursor  of  a  rankling  shaft, 
and  nervous  folk  were  apt  to  be  undone  by  the 
mere  look  without  the  words  ;  but  her  character  for 
cleverness,  together  with  her  great  beauty,  secured 
in  time  not  exactly  her  popularity,  but  a  long  visit- 
ing-list and  a  crowded  drawing-room. 

Meanwhile  during  the  seventeen  years  of  her 
residence  at  "  South  Downs  "  —  a  passage  of  time 
which  had  changed  her  fresh  beauty  to  something 
more  mellow — she  had  not  been  known  either  to 
pay  or  to  receive  a  visit  from  her  husband.  Sus- 
picion, however,  of  unseemly  estrangement  was 
assuaged  by  the  regularity  of  the  correspondence, 
and  the  decorous  dispatch  of  presents  of  great 
value  and  uncouth  appearance  from  the  far  West, 
witli  which  she  dutifully  made  her  drawing-room 
hideous. 

It  was  five  years  after  the  coming  of  the  Arm- 
3  33 


Life  the  Accuser. 

strongs  —  during  which  period  they  had  hung 
unvisited  upon  her  outskirts  —  that  the  event 
occurred  which  re-awakened  the  slumbering 
rumours  as  black  crows  from  their  nests.  In  this 
event  the  little  creature  Eliza  was  involved.  Early 
in  1875  the  death  of  the  Hon.  Leonard  Trelyon 
was  announced,  and  Mrs.  Trelyon  went  into  absence 
and  mourning.  After  six  months  " South  Downs" 
was  prepared  to  receive  her  again,  but  upon  her 
return  it  was  discovered  that  a  daughter  whose 
existence  had  hitherto  been  unsuspected,  had  come 
from  beyond  the  seas  with  other  miscellanies 
belonging  to  the  late  Mr.  Trelyon,  to  establish  her- 
self in  a  prominent  place  in  Mrs.  Trelyon's  house- 
hold—  a  daughter  whose  exceptional  beauty  and 
original  charm  accentuated  the  fact  of  her  own 
undreamed-of  existence  into  a  very  piquant  mystery 
indeed. 

But  if  this  could  have  been  all !  Mai-adroit 
Eliza  Armstrong,  who  had  lost  some  of  her  first 
awe  of  the  Families  without  gaining  worldly  knowl- 
edge or  discretion,  succeeded  in  betraying  to  a 
perplexed  neighbourhood  that  this  did  not  cover 
the  extent  of  the  irregularity.  For  was  not  "  Rosa- 
lie Trelyon  "  the  very  girl  whom  she  had  met  at 
Miss  Edwards's  finishing-school  at  Clapham?  — 
the  girl  who  never  went  home  for  the  holidays,  and 
with  whom  she  had  struck  up  one  of  those  strong 
girlish  friendships  that  often  serve  the  purpose  of 
first  love?  The  bond  formed  between  the  two 
34 


Hot  Summer. 

lapsed  when  either  girl  left  school,  for  Rosalie  was 
not  expansive  in  letter-writing,  nor  communicative 
about  herself.  Eliza  had  remained  as  ignorant  as 
the  rest  of  the  world  of  her  relation  to  Mrs.  Trelyon 
of  "  South  Downs,"  but  when  her  friend,  with- 
out a  word  of  warning  or  of  explanation,  suddenly 
appeared  on  the  scene  in  the  role  of  that  lady's 
only  daughter,  she  flew,  in  unabated  affection 
and  with  characteristic  unsophisticatedness,  to  re- 
embrace  her. 

The  Armstrong  family  felt  that  Eliza  had  played 
the  part  of  enfant  terrible.  Nor  were  the  rest  of 
the  neighbours  particularly  grateful;  they  would 
have  preferred  to  accept  Miss  Trelyon's  existence 
without  a  knowledge  of  the  London  school-days  on 
which  the  mother  had  kept  so  singular  a  silence. 
A  cold  look  or  two  crept  Eliza's  way.  Unsophisti- 
catedness is  the  least  successful  of  the  qualities  ;  no 
one  believes  in  it ;  it  presents  indeed  to  the  general 
mind  the  effect  of  deep  duplicity. 

Mrs.  Armstrong,  whose  severity  could  be  molli- 
fied for  a  whole  day  by  a  chance  bow  from  the 
Trelyon  carriage,  sat  down  in  perplexity  to  seek 
how  the  worldly  situation  might  be  over-reached  by 
an  Evangelical  Christian. 

Miss  Armstrong  rated  Eliza. 

"  With  your  forwardness  and  your  want  of  ton, 
you  have  placed  your  whole  family  in  a  most  serious 
and  compromising  position,"  said  she,  with  a  bitter 
and  superior  air. 

35 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  What  have  I  done,  Aunt  Caroline  ?  "  inquired 
small  fatal  Eliza,  opening  her  pale  clear  eyes.  "  I 
thought  you  wished  to  know  Mrs.  Trelyon  better." 

Aunt  Caroline  shook  a  derisive  and  discarding 
finger.  Eliza  remained  submerged. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Trelyon  took  hold  of  the  situa- 
tion and  overcame  it.  All  Mrs.  Trelyon's  qualities 
were  apparently  passive  ones  —  she  existed  by 
implication.  Her  very  attire  was  incalculable  :  she 
might  be  found  dressed  in  fashion's  height,  or 
clothed  in  garments  of  a  date  so  ancient  and  a  cut 
so  strange  that  they  suggested  a  rag-shop.  In  her 
personality  she  had  the  gift  of  mystery,  of  an  histori- 
cal manner  and  brow,  a  reminiscent  air  which 
revealed  nothing,  but  enfolded  her  in  remoteness 
and  silenced  inquiry.  When  this  poetic  and  com- 
memorative vagueness  was  disturbed  by  so  pro- 
nounced a  fact  as  the  appearance  of  a  beautiful 
daughter,  she  met  the  situation  with  that  tranquil 
candour  which  is  the  most  powerful  of  reserves. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  she,  introducing  the  beauti- 
tiful  enigma  with  her  carelessly  abstracted  air. 

As  to  Eliza,  she  met  that  disconcerting  fact  by  a 
conduct  too  delicate  and  perfect  to  earn  a  name. 

"  My  daughter's  school-friend,  Miss  Armstrong," 
said  she,  when  some  exalted  but  rather  hesitating 
guests  stumbled  on  the  pair  hand-in-hand,  happy 
and  chatting. 

Her  manner  included  Eliza  in  the  all-pervading 
courtesy  which  was  usual  to  her.  A  less  clever 
36 


Hot  Summer. 

woman  would  have  petted  the  girl ;  an  idiot  would 
have  snubbed  her.  Mrs.  Trelyon  had  been  candour 
itself,  curiosity  quailed  before  it,  yet  had  learnt 
nothing. 

Mrs.  Dayntree  was  the  first,  shortly  after  Mrs. 
Trelyon's  return  with  her  mysterious  appendage,  to 
direct  her  coachman  to  drive  to  "  South  Downs." 
Later,  Irene  Severne  was  heard  to  announce  over 
the  tea-cup  edge  at  Lady  Susannah  Woodruffs, 
that  she  found  Miss  Rosalie  Trelyon  "  quite  charm- 
ing." It  is  moreover  difficult  to  be  too  critical  of 
any  one  shadowed  under  the  stem  of  a  great  earl- 
dom, and  so  the  long  and  shining  list  returned  up 
the  avenue  at  "  South  Downs  "  as  though  nothing 
strange  had  occurred,  and  Lady  Susannah,  the 
Rector's  wife,  resolved  to  give  an  "  At  Home,"  and 
cards  of  invitation,  including  Mrs.  Trelyon  and  her 
daughter,  were  issued. 

As  far  as  the  county  is  concerned,  the  black 
wings  of  rumour  had  sunk  to  their  nests  after  an 
ineffectual  rustle.  Meanwhile  in  the  London  clubs 
was  a  much  more  considerable  flutter;  there  the 
"  world's  eye  "  winked  indeed,  and  the  world's 
tongue  found  a  wicked  word  or  two  to  say.  But 
club  scandal  was  just  what  Norman  Dayntree 
dropped  behind  the  club  doors  when  he  left  them 
for  his  house.  A  hint  of  what  was  said  there 
never  passed  his  lips.  No  man  in  England  was  so 
careful  to  keep  that  white  patch  of  his  existence 
which  he  named  "  home,"  and  which  bore  in  the 
37 


Life  the  Accuser. 

forefront  of  his  mind  the  perfect  figure  of  his  wife, 
uncontaminated  by  the  world.  He  had  a  special 
and  nervous  sensitiveness  on  the  subject  of  his  own 
particular  women ;  to  his  mind  they  were  "  set 
apart,"  scarcely  tasting  the  common  nature  which 
compounds  the  common  world  —  human  enough 
to  thrill  a  man's  sense,  but  not  so  human  as  to  be 
thrilled  in  return ;  spiritually  adjusted  and  poetised 
and  refined  to  a  delicacy  attributable  to  the  highest 
blossom  of  the  tree  which  the  sun  hits,  but  the  ele- 
ments of  earth  hardly  mount  to,  and  winging  the 
fancy  to  higher  things  even  in  the  moment  that  the 
warm  hand  sacrilegiously  gathers  it.  It  shocked 
him  in  this  region  of  artistic  fastidiousness  even  to 
think  of  the  coarse  and  mingled  flood  of  the  world's 
life  sweeping  so  much  as  the  hem  of  Constantia's 
garment.  In  his  opinion  men  and  women  stood 
upon  entirely  different  planes,  and  it  was  part  of 
his  business  as  a  husband  jealously  to  protect  his 
wife,  and  to  prevent  any  whiff  of  the  atmosphere  of 
the  manly  plane  from  invading  the  purer  air  of  her 
refined  existence. 

So  Norman  shut  his  mouth  on  the  tasty  whispers 
of  the  clubs,  and  said  not  a  word.  If  it  had  hap- 
pened at  all  —  and  he  doubted  it  —  it  had  hap- 
pened so  long  ago  that  it  hardly  mattered  now. 

Lady  Susannah's  party  was  a  subject  of  expecta- 
tion. Usually  the  formalities  at  the  Rectory  were 
dull.  Lady  Susannah's  chief  claim  to  interest  was, 
that  though  of  the  bluest  blood  she  had  eloped  with 

38 


Hot  Summer. 

the  curate  in  her  youth,  the  curate  having  justified 
his  audacity  by  a  series  of  Church  preferments,  which 
had  finally  settled  him  in  a  fat  living.  Lady  Susan- 
nah had  studied  court  life  in  earlier  days  in  both 
the  English  and  French  capitals,  and  remained  an 
admirer  and  intimate  friend  of  the  ex-Empress 
Eugenie,  her  manner  of  concluding  an  afternoon 
call  by  "  Ah  !  the  dear  Empress  !  But  I  must  fly. 
Good-bye  \ "  having  passed  with  some  into  a  by- 
word. 

On  this  particular  occasion,  however,  recollections 
of  the  Tuileries  were  to  be  taken  with  a  biting 
sauce ;  so  far  only  glimpses  of  Miss  Trelyon  had 
been  obtained,  but  startling  bits  of  gossip  had  flown 
from  tongue  to  tongue.  She  was  more  beautiful 
than  her  mother,  and  had  an  extraordinary  viva- 
city ;  but  it  was  the  gossip  emanating,  if  truth  were 
known,  from  the  servants'  hall,  and  trickling  into  the 
ears  of  the  higher  circles  from  the  lips  of  ladies' 
maids,  that  caused  the  real  excitement.  Somehow 
it  crept  out  that  Mrs.  Trelyon's  maid  on  unpacking 
the  numerous  boxes  of  the  young  lady  had  been 
unable  to  discover  one  scrap  of  the  regulation 
linen,  whereas  she  had  turned  out  some  singularly 
masculine-looking  garments,  and  at  length  amongst 
the  brilliant  but  bizarre  costumes  had  come  upon  a 
set  of  clothes  more  suitable  for  a  masquerading  boy 
than  an  English  "  young  lady."  The  blushing 
maid  being  at  a  loss,  and  with  her  breast  thumping 
with  the  terrors  of  this  Babylonish  garment,  had 
39 


Life  the  Accuser. 

appealed  to  her  mistress,  whereupon  she  received 
the  languid  explanation  that  it  was  believed  Miss 
Trelyon  had  ridden  much  with  her  father  when 
abroad,  and  had  used  them  for  the  conveniences  of 
hard  travel.  A  movement  in  favour  of  putting 
them  on  at  "  South  Downs  "  had  been  cut  short  in 
a  hot  altercation  between  the  mother  and  daughter. 

For  a  lady  as  devoted  to  conventions  as  was 
Mrs.  Trelyon,  the  lovely  Rosalie  seemed  likely  to 
prove  an  unmanageable  portion.  Little  by  little  it 
oozed  out  that  the  Hon.  Leonard  Trelyon  had 
brought  up  his  daughter  as  much  like  a  boy  as  natu- 
ral circumstances  would  permit.  He  had  kept  her 
by  his  side  on  every  occasion,  and  had  accustomed 
her  to  participation  in  his  life.  She  had  journeyed 
with  him  on  horseback  through  miles  of  country, 
had  encamped  with  him  days  and  nights  together, 
had  sailed  with  him  up  the  long  mysterious  rivers, 
and  cruised  about  the  lakes ;  she  could  climb  and 
leap  like  a  lad,  ride  and  shoot  and  manage  a  canoe. 
Moreover,  she  did  a  part  of  his  secretarial  work 
for  him,  read  the  dispatches,  and  was  reported  to 
have  understood  them.  Her  life  had  been  a  ro- 
mance of  adventure,  taken  for  the  most  part  in  the 
open  air,  and  filled  in  —  none  save  herself  per- 
haps knew  how  —  by  the  flaming  colours  appro- 
priate to  a  young  and  beautiful  woman  in  the 
tropics. 

When  she  passed  from  this  stirring  colonial  life 
with  her  father  to  the  charge  of  her  conventional 
40 


Hot  Summer. 

mother  at  "South  Downs,"  she  brought  with  her 
not  only  Mr.  Trelyon's  last  testament  and  bequest 
—  by  which  she  herself  was  left  his  sole  heiress  — 
but  a  sealed  envelope  and  a  variety  of  odd  "  treas- 
ures." 

With  her  mother,  her  manner  was  short  and 
reticent,  somewhat  patronising  it  may  be,  and 
not  without  an  infusion  of  contempt.  Mrs. 
Trelyon  followed  her  about  with  curious  watch- 
fulness, but  as  a  rule  avoided  any  attempt  at 
inquisitorial  questions.  On  one  occasion,  however, 
an  inquiry  escaped  the  tongue  it  burned.  Two 
rooms  opening  from  an  upper  passage  had  been 
accorded  to  Rosalie  as  her  own  ;  the  passage  ended 
in  doors  of  coloured  glass,  which  opened  on  a 
covered  bridge  that  arched  a  space  behind  the 
house,  and  led  on  to  a  terrace  of.  the  garden. 
These  rooms  the  girl  decorated  with  the  treasures 
she  had  brought  from  abroad,  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  recall  to  her  continual  remembrance  the  old 
home  in  the  far-off  land.  In  such  a  moment  of 
her  work  the  door  opened,  and  her  mother  entered 
unannounced.  The  girl  turned  with  a  flush  on  her 
cheek  and  a  look  under  her  lids  to  match  Mrs. 
Trelyon's  own.  Two  miniatures,  finely  executed, 
of  two  young  men  in  old-fashioned  dress  had  just 
been  hung  on  the  wall  in  a  place  of  honour.  Her 
eye  travelled  up  her  mother's  person  from  her  feet 
to  her  forehead ;  Mrs.  Trelyon's  leapt  to  the  por- 
traits. She  extended  a  delicate  high-bred  hand 


Life  the  Accuser. 

and  pointed.  The  act  had  less  leisurely  indiffer- 
ence than  was  her  wont. 

"  My  husband,  I  perceive.  But  the  other  ?  Am 
I  allowed  to  inquire?  " 

"His  friend  —  whom  my  father  bade  me  love 
and  honour." 

The  words  "my  father"  left  her  lips  with  a 
lingering  accent  of  appropriating  pride. 

"  His  name?  "  murmured  Mrs.  Trelyon  softly. 

Rosalie  shook  her  head  as  calmly.  Mrs.  Trel- 
yon 'beheld  her  entrenched  in  her  most  reticent 
mood.  She  met  it  by  a  glance  —  too  small  for 
observation  —  of  curiosity  and  derision  from  heavily 
lashed  lids.  Her  daughter,  at  the  moment  unlock- 
ing a  box,  handed  her  a  sealed  envelope. 

"  For  you,"  «said  she  briefly,  with  her  coldest 
manner. 

The  envelope  contained  the  single  confidential 
document  which  had  passed  between  the  husband 
and  wife  during  all  the  years  of  their  separation. 
The  letter,  save  for  one  sentence,  was  simply  a  care- 
ful piece  of  advice  as  to  the  treatment  of  the  girl 
whom  the  final  circumstance  of  Death  obliged  him 
to  hand  to  another  guardianship  than  his  own. 
The  exceptional  sentence  riveted  Mrs.  Trelyon's 
attention,  and  brought  into  her  eyes  a  reflective 
look.  Thus  did  it  run  — 

"  I  have  brought  her  up  to  a  man's  vigorous 
activity.  I  have  done  this  of  set  purpose,  BECAUSE 

' 


42 


Hot  Summer. 

was  the  only  chance.  So  far  I  believe  it  to  have, 
prospered.  Continue  my  work  in  the  beloved 
child:' 

It  was  upon  the  long  gap  after  the  word 
"  BECAUSE  "  that  Mrs.  Trelyon  laid  her  finger,  with 
the  light  gleaming  in  her  eyes.  It  was  the  word- 
less portion  which  was  the  understood  and  intimate 
thing ;  the  symbolic  dots  contained  the  innermost 
meaning.  But  when  the  utmost  has  been  spoken 
from  one  to  another,  news  lies  hidden  in  either 
breast.  Presumably  Mrs.  Trelyon  read  into  the 
eloquent  symbol  something  more  than  her  husband 
had  thrown  there,  or  something  different :  or  it 
may  be  that  cleverness  is  no  security  for  the  depth 
of  judgment  called  wisdom ;  however  it  might  be, 
Mrs.  Trelyon,  after  prolonged  reflection,  destroyed 
the  letter,  and  made  up  her  mind  to  totally  reverse 
the  policy.  She  sent  a  confidential  epistle  of  her 
own  —  one  with  no  silent  spaces  in,  but  frank  and 
candid  as  the  day,  and  with  all  the  sentiments  fully 
expressed  —  to  a  lady  of  eminent  and  established 
propriety.  The  result  of  the  communication  was 
that  there  arrived  at  "South  Downs"  a  "perfect 
treasure,"  recommended  by  the  eminent  lady  as 
a  suitable  chaperone  and  care-taker  of  the  lovely 
Rosalie. 

By  the  time  that  Lady  Susannah  issued  her  cards 

of  invitation,  Rosalie  had  been  for  three  months  an 

inmate  of  her  mother's  house.     Her  father  was  her 

god  and  her  standard ;  she  tried  all  men   by  it ; 

43 


Life  the  Accuser. 

his  treatment  of  her  as  a  woman  was  the  treatment 
she  exacted  from  all.  "My  father"  ran  on  her 
tongue  with  frequency,  and  with  a  pretty  unques- 
tioning pride  that  was  winning.  Mrs.  Trelyon 
listened  with  lowered  lids.  Rosalie  quoted  his 
views  on  Colonial  policy,  and  believed  them  to  be 
the  ultimate  wisdom.  Colonial  matters  were  prior  in 
her  view  to  home  and  foreign  affairs.  She  burned 
with  ardent  partisanship  on  topics  that  drawing- 
room  politicians  knew  nothing  of.  England  was  a  tri- 
fling item  in  the  great  Imperial  Empire.  She  thrilled 
responsive  to  the  beat  of  waves  on  the  distant  edges 
of  another  hemisphere ;  and  the  talk  she  heard 
tinkled  in  her  ears  like  domestic  cattle-bells. 

One  day  shortly  before  the  party,  Lady  Susannah 
inadvertently  kindled  a  small  fire  of  interest. 

"  You  must  talk  of  these  things  with  Mr.  Dayn- 
tree  one  day,"  said  she,  stealing  a  well-bred  glance 
at  the  easy-fitting  school-girl  gown  in  which  Rosa- 
lie could  without  impediment  have  climbed  a  tree ; 
"  people  so  often  indicate  him  as  a  future  Secretary 
for  the  Colonies  —  he  has  all  the  knowledge.  My 
interests  are  in  the  European  courts,  I  was  intimate 
at  the  Tuileries.  The  dear  Empress " 

The  girl's  proud  glowing  face  belied  her  gown. 

"  A  nymph  !  an  Amazon  ! "  ejaculated  the  Rec- 
tor, with  so  much  enthusiasm  —  being  in  spite  of 
his  cloth  at  bottom  but  a  man — on  his  way  down 
the  drive,  that  Lady  Susannah  abruptly  recalled  the 
talk  to  duty  and  the  church  poor-box. 
44 


Hot  Summer. 

A  future  Colonial  Secretary !  It  was  the  first 
stirring  of  real  interest  she  had  felt  in  her  new 
home.  How  slow  they  all  were  !  Was  there  any- 
thing anywhere  to  take  hold  of  ?  Anything  which 
might  draw  her  again  within  the  rushing  current  of 
genuine  life?  A  picture  shone  in  her  mind  fora 
moment  —  she  saw  herself  mounted  close  by  her 
father's  side  on  a  star-lit  night,  she  felt  again  the 
mettle  of  the  horse  that  her  knees  gripped,  and  the 
bridle  lightening  in  her  left  hand,  while  her  ear  bent 
towards  her  father's  rapid  and  murmured  counsels. 
Then  the  silent  wait  and  the  wild  thrill  of  danger, 
and  the  tension  of  her  body  and  nerves  up  to  the 
reach  of  the  moment,  her  hands  stretching  as  it 
were  between  death  and  life ;  and  after  that  the 
mysterious  rush  by  of  an  unseen  troop  of  Indians 
somewhere  in  the  night,  and  the  twang  and  rustle 
of  a  stray  arrow  shot  at  random  and  flying  over- 
head. 

That  sort  of  thing  quickened  existence  and  made 
life  worth  living.  A  hair-breadth  escape  from  death 
brought  one  to  clasp  one's  own  flesh  and  bones  in 
rapture ;  to  have  been  certain  of  one's  nerve  while 
the  King  of  Terrors  passed,  uplifted  the  sense  of 
one's  own  personality  —  as  though  nature  itself  had 
kissed  one  on  the  mouth. 

But  this  suppressed  existence  of  stays  and  sofas  ! 

How  was   she  to  run  a  scarlet   thread  of  interest 

within  the  dun-coloured  material  ?     The  two  words, 

"  Colonial  Secretary,"  suggested  that  at  least  in  the 

45 


Life  the  Accuser. 

neighbourhood  was  one  man  who  could  talk ;  her 
need  for  adventure  and  for  touching  the  moment 
with  skilled  appropriating  handling,  brought  about 
a  second  suggestion  for  creating  secret  amusement 
out  of  Lady  Susannah's  party.  As  she  walked  to 
her  dressing-table  she  determined  to  undertake  for 
the  evening  the  role  of  decorum  and  fashion,  and  to 
play  it  off  on  the  local  inquisitors  whom  she  rightly 
surmised  as  being  preoccupied  by  her  personality 
and  dying  of  curiosity  concerning  it. 

The  eyes  of  the  interested  discovered  her  there- 
fore seated  meekly  on  a  lounge,  in  a  Worth  gown, 
and  holding  the  fire  of  her  glance  beneath  a  down- 
cast lid,  while  prettily  accepting  the  homage  of  a 
number  of  gentlemen  and  of  some  ladies  to  her 
youth,  her  exceptional  experience,  and  her  beauty. 

"  Trousers  and  leggings ! "  whispered  a  disap- 
pointed gossip  to  Irene  Severne,  "  if  it  were  n't  for 
her  eyebrows  one  would  swear  she  still  ate  bread- 
and-treacle  with  the  nursemaid,  and  played  'La 
Grace '  in  the  garden." 

Mrs.  Trelyon  viewed  the  proceedings  of  her 
daughter  with  a  watchful  eye ;  presumably  she 
recognised  the  hereditary  principle  ;  an  apprecia- 
tive understanding  kindled  in  her  sleepy  glance. 

Lord  Warren ne  —  specially  entreated  for  the  oc- 
casion —  hurried  up  first,  and  a  sequence  of  the  dull 
and  decorous  followed.  A  miscellany  of  conversa- 
tion was  offered  up  in  bits.  She  got  the  foxhounds 
from  one,  and  the  proceedings  of  the  Royal  Institu- 
46 


Hot  Summer. 

tion  from  another.  Her  ears  yearned  for  the  Colo- 
nies, and  the  nearest  she  arrived  at  was  the  recent 
insurrection  in  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina. 

"  What  we  want,"  said  a  sententious  politician, 
expounding  the  Eastern  question,  "  is  simply  to  get 
at  the  facts,  and  then  to  apply  free,  fresh,  moral 
principles  to  them." 

Lord  Warrenne,  who  was  a  Whig,  and  regretted 
the  late  Government,  kept  his  mind  in  a  constant 
state  of  opposition ;  he  had  secret  information 
that  the  present  Foreign  Secretary  was  committed 
to  a  totally  wrong  course. 

"  Lord  Derby,"  he  began,  "  as  every  one 
knows " 

Rosalie  languished  under  it,  and  grew  a  trifle 
pale.  Lord  Warrenne,  having  unhooked  his  button 
from  the  politician  with  the  ready  remedies,  re- 
turned to  her  side. 

"  I  recall  your  father  in  old  days,'7  he  said  kindly. 

That  secured  her  attention ;  and  it  was  at  this 
moment  that  the  room,  which  seemed  sinking  into 
the  hopeless  neutral  tints  of  inanity,  shot  all  over  as 
with  crimson  light  and  colour.  The  voice  of  an 
invisible  servant  announced  — 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dayntree." 

Her  gaze  was  upon  Norman  in  a  moment,  and 
after  a  brief  and  anxious  inspection  she  emitted  a 
faint,  satisfied  sigh.  Here  was  quarry  worth  the 
game  at  last !  Lord  Warrenne,  remarking  her  wan- 
dering eye,  thought  her  breeding,  which  had  ap- 
47 


Life  the  Accuser. 

peared  perfect,  might  after  all  be  improved ;  he 
must  persuade  his  wife  to  ask  their  little  kinswoman 
to  the  Castle.  Catching  the  critical  glance,  she  soft- 
ened it  by  a  pretty  appeal. 

"  Who  is  this  Mr.  Dayntree?"  asked  she. 

"  Dayntree  ?  Well,  he  is  lord  of  the  manor,  and 
a  prince  amongst  merchants,  and  the  handsomest 
man  in  the  county,  and  married  to  the  best  of 
women,  and  old  enough  to  be  your  father,"  spoke 
Lord  Warrenne  to  the  very  young  miss  whose  harm- 
less muslins  had  so  prettily  bespread  the  sofa  all 
evening. 

"  Introduce  him,  please ;  some  one  called  him 
the  Colonial  Secretary." 

"  Ah,  yes ! "  responded  her  august  kinsman, 
wondering  he  had  not  remarked  her  eyebrows 
before  ;  "  so  they  say.  It  is  n't  much  more  than 
aspiration  at  present,  I  fear." 

"  I  was  told  he  had  all  the  knowledge.  He  ought 
to  be  Secretary." 

"  Ah,  yes !  But  I  'm  afraid  we  don't  choose 
our  State  Secretaries  that  way,  Rosalie,  my  dear. 
Though  I  admit  if  Dayntree  chose  to  put  himself  in 
the  way  of  it,  he  'd  get  the  office  for  the  asking." 

A  man  who  might  be  Colonial  Secretary  and  who 
stood  aloof,  was  even  more  stimulating  than  a  man 
caught  and  entrenched  in  the  Cabinet. 

"  I  wish  to  talk  to  him  about  the  Colonies.  I 
was  my  father's  secretary,  and  read  the  dispatches." 

Her  eye  kindled.  Lord  Warrenne  laughed  pleas- 
48 


Hot  Summer. 

antly.  He  liked  an  English  girl  to  be  modest  in 
her  manner  and  comme-il-faut,  but  this  kindling  eye 
gave  a  pleasant  touch  of  sauce  and  interest.  He 
was  of  course  willing  to  humour  and  please  her,  and 
leaving  her  side  he  skirted  slowly  towards  Dayntree  ; 
presently  he  had  him  by  the  elbow,  and  said  some- 
thing laughingly  in  his  ear.  Dayntree  responded 
by  an  amused  nod  and  a  raised  eyebrow.  Rosalie 
saw  without  appearing  to  watch.  Her  mind,  body, 
and  nerve  steeled  itself  to  the  encounter.  She  had 
seen  the  good-natured  mirth,  and  her  spirit  was  fired. 
Her  mood  rose  on  a  wave  of  presumptuous  resolve. 
When  Dayntree,  still  with  the  amused  light  in  his 
eyes,  approached,  and  Lord  Warrenne  made  the 
introduction,  she  bent  her  head  with  the  air  of  a 
princess  and  signed  to  him  to  take  a  seat  by  her 
side ;  at  the  same  moment  she  threw  from  under 
her  lashes  a  challenging  glance  that  pricked  like  a 
pin.  Dayntree  caught  it  again  on  a  raised  eye- 
brow, and,  seating  himself  by  her  side  to  discourse 
on  the  Colonies,  looked  for  a  brief  moment  pene- 
tratingly into  the  dark  irises. 


49 


Life  the  Accuser. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"THE  MANOR  HOUSE,"  Norman  Dayntree's  an- 
cestral home,  was  a  show-place  amongst  English 
antiquities.  He  had  inherited  it  when  a  young 
man  through  the  unlooked-for  death  of  an  elder 
brother,  but  had  not  for  that  reason  relinquished 
the  career  to  which  his  tastes  led  him.  It  was  out 
of  deliberate  choice  that  he  had  thrown  his  activi- 
ties into  commerce  ;  to  discover  the  resources  of  a 
country,  to  develop  them,  and  to  run  the  show  for 
all  it  was  worth,  was  his  ideal  of  activity.  The 
commercial  idea  was  with  him  by  no  means  limited 
to  money ;  personal  gain  was  not  his  last  and  ulti- 
mate object.  There  was  a  streak  of  the  magnificent 
in  his  transactions,  and  the  line  between  his  com- 
mercial policy  and  the  significance  of  political  affairs 
was  not  always  clear. 

Dayntree's  knowledge  was,  however,  not  a  thing 
acquired  politically,  but  was  rather  an  accidental 
result  pertaining  to  his  business  method.  Con- 
sequently there  was  a  practicality  in  his  Colonial 
attitude  that  appealed  to  the  English  type  of  mind ; 
he  seemed  to  handle  the  thing  as  it  were  in  sub- 
stance, and  folk  who  were  suspicious  of  mere  theo- 
5° 


Hot  Summer. 

rists,  political  or  otherwise,  got  into  a  habit  of  saying 
that  he  had  a  wider  knowledge  of  the  Colonies  and 
saner  views  on  Colonial  questions  than  most  men, 
and  he  combined  these  supposititious  attributes 
with  a  fine  social  position,  an  impressive  presence 
and  great  riches,  and  hence  the  suggestion  of  the 
Secretaryship  followed  as  a  natural  sequence. 

So  far,  however,  Norman  was  not  even  in  Parlia- 
ment ;  a  flood  of  affairs  had  swept  him  even  from 
that  threshold  to  ambition.  In  early  days  he  had 
travelled  much  and  at  the  present  time  still  kept 
well-selected  emissaries  to  do  the  travelling  no 
longer  possible  for  himself.  His  office  in  the  City 
sent  out  sensitive  feelers  into  many 'distant  lands, 
and  news  of  every  kind  —  that  eager  impress  of 
fresh  development  that  keeps  the  best  minds  awake 
and  aware  to  the  finger-tips  of  natural  and  human 
movement  throughout  the  world  —  tumbled  by  let, 
ter,  by  newspaper,  by  telegram,  daily  into  his  office  - 
to  be  dissected  and  analysed  by  his  clerks  and 
brought  up  to  him  to  deal  with.  Possibly  he  felt 
that  his  office  door  opened  to  an  arena  wider  than 
that  of  routine  politics  ;  at  any  rate,  he  had  justified 
his  choice  of  a  career  by  supreme  success.  Never- 
theless, the  political  side  remained  an  ambition  to 
him,  and  he  habitually  felt  about  his  shoulders  the 
mantle  of  an  honour  still  to  be. 

In  appearance  he  justified  Rosalie's  sigh  of  satis- 
faction ;  he  was  handsome,  and  forty  years  of  exist- 
ence had  mellowed  his  natural  grace  into  a  very 
51 


Life  the  Accuser. 

dignified  appearance ;  some  said  he  was  courtly 
enough  for  a  Speaker ;  others  said,  "  Don't  thr^w 
Dayntree  away  on  that ;  he  is  a  born  administrator." 

"  He  is  a  profoundly  clever  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Trelyon,  with  her  innocent  air ;  "  everything  appears 
to  hang  on  his  silence." 

At  the  same  time  there  was  a  point  of  Norman's 
physiognomy  to  which  the  eye  returned,  and  which 
on  occasion  repulsed  the  average  man  and  sent 
him  away  wondering  whether  Dayntree  was  so 
"safe"  after  all.  To  women  the  look  —  it  lay 
chiefly  in  his  eyes  —  was  attractive  ;  Constantia,  his 
wife  —  unconsciously  perhaps  —  read  it  as  a  testi- 
mony to  that  portion  of  his  nature  which  she  alone 
knew  by  heart  and  loved  him  the  better  for. 

It  happened  that  one  afternoon  of  this  hot  sum- 
mer of  1876  (on  the  same  day  as  that  on  which 
Eliza  Armstrong  concluded  that  death  was  prefer- 
able to  life)  Mrs.  Dayntree  awaited  the  visit  of  her 
sister  Irene  Severne  in  a  large  upstair  room  of  the 
Manor  House.  The  place  was  the  very  home  of 
peace.  She  stood  by  a  clothes-press  which  lay 
along  one  side  of  the  wall.  The  doors  were  open, 
and  disclosed  the  miscellaneous  collection  of  a 
boy's  wearing  apparel.  She  was  searching  amongst 
them,  and  presently  drew  forth  a  small  muddy  heap 
from  a  corner.  It  was  a  pair  of  child's  knicker- 
bockers. Turning  with  them  to  the  light,  she  held 
them  with  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  both  hands, 
so  as  to  secure  to  her  motherly  sense  the  luxury  of 

52 


Hot  Summer. 

the  outline  while  measuring  the  damage  she  had 
suspected  and  discovered,  Then  she  imprinted  a 
butterfly  kiss  upon  the  rough  material,  and  prosa- 
ically sat  down  to  mend  them. 

It  was  now  the  heart  of  the  day,  late  in  the  after- 
noon. The  room  was  a  bright  airy  place  which  she 
called  her  sewing-room.  Mrs.  Dayntree's  work- 
table  was  near  the  hearth.  Immediately  above  the 
chair  where  she  was  sitting  was  a  photograph  of  a 
number  of  boys  from  one  of  her  Majesty's  training 
ships  for  the  Royal  Navy.  From  amongst  these 
indistinguishable  personalities,  Mrs.  Dayntree  was 
wont  to  pick  out  one,  and  to  name  it  with  a  tender 
air  of  pride,  "  Our  Ronald." 

At  this  period,  Constantia  was  a  handsome 
woman  of  thirty-nine.  If  she  had  lost  the 
graces  of  early  youth,  she  had  taken  on  new 
beauties.  Her  face  was  full  of  serene  experience ; 
there  was  not  a  small  or  fretful  line  upon  it ;  her 
personality  was  harmonious  and  full  of  repose. 
When  Irene  appeared,  she  looked  up  with  a  smile 
of  welcome,  and  extended  the  damaged  knicker- 
bockers to  her  view.  Irene  glanced  at  them  with 
amused,  melting  eyes,  and  touched  the  outline 
whimsically.  Neither  spoke,  but  the  looks  of  the 
two  women  met  on  one  of  the  delicious  secrets  of 
the  affections. 

"  Shall  I  ring  for  tea  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Dayntree. 

"  Thanks,  no.  I  drank  it  in  the  splendid  atmos- 
phere of  Rosalie  Trelyon,  with  Mrs.  Trelyon  look- 
53 


Life  the  Accuser. 

ing  silently  on.     And  I  have  come  away  feeling  my 
age." 

"  Nonsense  about  your  age.  Rosalie  is  a  school- 
girl!" 

"  On  the  contrary,  she  has  never  been  young.  I 
like  her ;  but  so  much  originality  in  a  girl  in  her 
teens  withers  me  up.  It  used  to  be  my  quality ; 
but  I  turn  into  a  platitude  in  her  presence." 

"  I  don't  think  Norman  quite  approves  of  her," 
said  Constantia. 

"  He  does  not  count.  We  are  all  ridiculously 
old-fashioned  people.  Let  us  talk  of  the  past, 
Constantia." 

Irene  seated  herself  close  to  the  window,  and  the 
trees  threw  a  shadow  over  her;  but  presently  a 
small  breeze  arose  and  disturbed  the  leaves,  and  a 
sunbeam  came  through  and  touched  her  cheek. 
Constantia  gave  a  delighted  cry. 

"  It  is  the  sunlight  on  your  cheek,"  she  explained  ; 
"  it  made  you  look  ten  years  younger.  It  brought 
back  the  old  look  I  remember  so  well  —  the  look  of 
your  face,  dear,  that  even  a  fashionable  bonnet 
could  not  prevail  over." 

"  I  recall  the  bonnets.  They  were  flat  over  the 
forehead,  and  had  composite  side-whiskers  of  tulle 
and  roses,  and  a  '  curtain  '  behind." 

"  It  is  twenty  years  ago,"  said  Constantia,  sigh- 
ing ;  "  Norman  must  just  have  proposed  to  me. 
And  here  I  am  now  with  a  son  sixteen  years  of 

age,  while  you " 

54 


Hot  Summer. 

"  While  I  am  still  on  the  market  labelled  '  Dam- 
aged Goods  :  a  Reduction.'  " 

"  Irene " 

"  Don't  hesitate,  Constantia !  I  have  reached 
my  last  matrimonial  chance.  Mr.  Dixon  has, 
as  you  have  constantly  forewarned  me,  proposed 
in  the  most  proper  manner,  and  I  have  refused 
him.  Done  it,  my  dear,  in  a  final  and  emphatic 
way." 

"Oh,  Irene !  And  those  two  nice  little  girls 
of  his  ! " 

"  I  am  not,  at  my  age,  prepared  to  open  an 
orphanage,  Constantia." 

"But  I  was  going  to  say  —  such  an  excellent 
man  ! " 

"  Ah,  yes  !  An  eminent  Whig.  He  carries  his 
political  opinions  as  an  accumulated  growth  upon 
him.  I  know  the  correctness  of  his  liberality  by 
the  cut  of  his  whiskers.  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  provoked 
into  red-hot  Toryism  when  he  is  present.  Generally 
I  begin  to  uphold  the  integrity  of  the  Turkish 
Empire;  the  sufferings  of  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina 
cease  to  appeal  to  me  ;  and  I  'm  seized  with  perver- 
sity on  the  subject  of  the  Berlin  Note  ;  or  at  least  I 
take  an  early  opportunity  of  admiring  Disraeli's 
novels,  and  wondering  with  what  title  the  Queen 
is  about  to  reward  his  eminent  services  to  our 
country.  Now,  Constantia  !  Imagine  the  domestic 
hearth  under  these  circumstances  ! " 

"But  consider  — 

55 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  've  considered  everything.  I  've 
considered  the  furniture  in  the  drawing-room,  the 
curtains,  the  upholstery.  Very  likely  he  would 
allow  me  three  hundred  a  year  to  dress  on.  Even 
that  does  not  move  my  heart." 

Constantia  laughed,  and  then  sighed.  The  fact 
that  her  beautiful  sister  remained  unmarried  had 
always  been  a  grievance.  She  was  of  opinion  that 
no  life  was  complete  for  a  woman  save  that  of  a 
wife  or  mother.  But  Irene  was  incorrigible.  And 
after  all  a  marriage  with  Mr.  Dixon  the  widower 
was  not,  even  in  her  estimation,  quite  the  genuine 
thing,  and  she  suspected  that  her  tone  in  recom- 
mending him  lapsed  into  that  of  the  second-hand 
dealer.  Irene  would  be  sure  to  say  so  if  she  per- 
sisted ;  and  when  her  sister  finally  complained  that 
she  was  in  effect  being  asked  to  exchange  her 
brown  hair  and  pallor  for  a  blond  wig  and  rouge, 
Constantia  smilingly  dropped  the  subject,  and  put  her 
hand  out  caressingly  towards  the  quiet  coils  of  hair. 

When  about  half-an-hour  later  Irene  left,  she  laid 
aside  her  sewing  and  glanced  at  the  clock;  the 
hands  moved  towards  six,  and  the  dinner-hour  was 
at  seven.  Her  husband  usually  contrived  to  be  at 
home  by  this  time.  She  opened  the  door  and  went 
out  into  the  passage  and  called  his  name.  There 
was  no  answer,  and,  returning  to  the  room,  she 
began  to  pace  about  rather  restlessly.  The  swing 
of  a  side-door  and  a  distant  step  reassured  her ; 
she  paused,  and  then  heard  a  servant  speak  while 

56 


Hot  Summer. 

the  step  came  on  up  the  stairs  towards  the  sewing- 
room.  It  was  not,  however,  Norman,  but  a  fair  girl 
with  red-gold  hair  who  appeared  on  the  threshold. 
She  stood  there  hesitatingly,  pushing  before  her  a 
bunch  of  splendid  cream  roses. 


57 


Life  the  Accuser. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IF  Constantia  felt  her  spirits  dashed  by  this  inept 
presence,  she  did  not  show  it ;  she  extended  her 
hand  with  one  of  her  kindest  smiles. 

Eliza  Armstrong  laid  her  roses  on  her  friend's 
knee  silently. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  lately  ?  "  asked 
Constantia,  when  the  girl  had  seated  herself  by  the 
window. 

"Practising  scales  chiefly.  I  wish  to  play. 
Music  is  what  Edward  and  Sylvia  care  for.  I  am 
far  behind  them.  Music  won't  come  for  me  out  of 
strings  or  keys.  I  practise  ;  but  when  all  is  done  I 
can  only  listen.  I  have  n't  the  right  sort  of  hand 
for  the  piano." 

"  It  is  a  very  pretty  hand,"  said  Constantia, 
quickly,  "  and  a  good  listener  is  rare." 

"  But,"  said  Eliza,  "  that  is  not  what  they  care  for. 
Edward  wants  more  noise.  This  afternoon " 

"  Well  ? "  said  Constantia,  for  the  girl  paused. 

"Edward  was  playing  with  Sylvia  and  she  was 
called  away.  I  went  on  listening  to  Edward.  Not 
that  I  like  his  playing,  but  I  liked  what  he  was 
playing.  Edward  considers  me  a  fool.'7 

58 


Hot  Summer. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Constantia,  her  brow  darkening. 

"  Because  I  did  not  take  up  the  piece  and  go  on 
just  where  Sylvia  had  broken  off.  He  said  he 
wanted  a  glorious  crescendo  at  the  end  —  a  voice  or 
a  clash  of  keys.  Why  should  he  expect  that  from 
me  when  I  can  do  neither  ?  He  considers  me  a  fool." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Constantia,  "  and  so  the  piece  had 
to  end  after  all  in  the  extremely  harsh  sounds  of 
Mr.  Edward  Armstrong's  violin  ? " 

Eliza  looked  puzzled.  She  detected  satire  in 
Mrs.  Dayntree's  voice.  But  her  judgment  was  dis- 
ordered by  the  family  atmosphere  of  the  glorification 
of  Edward.  It  was  impossible  to  conceive  that  he 
was  satirised ;  if  there  were  satire,  it  was  probably 
in  some  way  pointed  at  herself. 

"  So  many  people,"  said  Constantia,  gently,  "  mis- 
take the  unimportant  for  the  important,  and  worry 
their  lives  out  over  a  trifle.  But  you  have  no  need 
to  do  that,  Eliza." 

"Need  I  not?" 

"  Certainly  not.  There  is  something  better  in 
store  for  you.  I  do  not  say  that  life  will  be  easy 
for  you.  I  have  often  remarked  that  you  see  more 
and  less  than  others  do.  That  is  a  difficult  com- 
bination of  qualities." 

Eliza  leaned  forward  and  touched  her  friend's 
hand. 

"  I  know  I  have  got  some  power,"  said  she,  "  but 
I  do  not  see  that  it  is  any  use.  Power  in  my  head 
and  none  in  myself." 

59 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  You  ought  to  trust  yourself.  You  should  be 
strong." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Eliza.  "  And  I  would  give  a  good 
deal  for  permission  to  be  weak.  In  other  Ways," 
she  added,  with  a  gleam  of  humour,  "  I  have  much 
to  contend  with.  There  is  my  hair,  for  example. 
I  do  think  when  Providence  made  me  stupid  he 
might  have  made  me  inconspicuous  too.  But  when 
a  bonnet  or  a  dress  is  in  question,  they  say  :  '  Eliza 
must  be  toned  down.' " 

"My  dear  child!  You  have  talent.  And  your 
hair  and  complexion  are  lovely." 

"  Well !  If  so,  it  is  an  inconsistency  the  more. 
I  envy  the  consistently  stupid  —  those  who  have  all 
their  edges  blunted  —  just  as  I  feel  it  would  have 
been  better  to  be  ugly  outright.  The  hard  fate  is 
to  be  neither  one  thing  nor  another  —  to  be  all 
inconsistency.  I  envy  the  very  gardener's  boy. 
He  knows  exactly  what  he  is,  neither  more  nor  less. 
He  gets  up  every  morning  to  certain  work,  and 
knows  from  hour  to  hour  that  nothing  fresh  can 
by  any  possibility  occur.  Yes,  I  envy  the  gardener's 
boy ;  he  is  a  quite  consistent  example  of  plainness 
and  dulness." 

Constantia  laughed,  and  patted  the  girl's  hand 
kindly. 

"  If  I  could  get  into  my  own  planet,"  she  con- 
tinued  whimsically — "my   powers,   you  see,    are 
those  of  a  telescope  —  it  would  be  more  convenient 
to  be  able  to  see  what  is  under  my  own  nose.     The 
60 


Hot  Summer. 

gardener's  boy  has  at  least  this  much  advantage 
over  me  —  his  mother  adores  him.  But  Aunt 
Caroline  said  to  me  the  other  day :  '  Eliza,  you 
will  never  be  loved.' '' 

"  That  was  an  exceedingly  wrong  remark  to 
make,"  said  Constantia,  with  emphasis. 

"  But  true,"  returned  Eliza,  gloomily  ;  "  I  see  it 
in  my  telescopic  moods.  Even  you  have  nothing 
better  to  advise  than  that  I  should  be  strong.  If 
you  only  knew  how  gladly  I  would  accept  insignifi- 
cance if  only  it  were  accompanied  by  affection  ! 
I  have  dreams  —  that  is  the  worst.  But  I  am  con- 
demned to  be  founded  upon  a  rock  !  The  pupil  of 
Marcus  Aurelius  and  all  the  Stoics  —  with  a  hand 
like  this,  red  hair  and  pale  eyebrows,  and  the 
Christian  name  'Eliza'  !" 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  you,  little  Peri !  "  said  Con- 
stantia, laughing,  and  kissing  the  tips  of  her  fingers 
towards  her. 

Eliza  rose  and  reached  the  door  without  respond- 
ing. There  she  stood  touching  the  handle  and 
turning  over  Constantia's  last  words  thoughtfully. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "  so  you  think.  And  I  am  cer- 
tain of  my  own  love  for  you.  Nevertheless,  at  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  lies  a  conviction  that  the  irony 
of  things  has  selected  me  out  of  all  others  to  bring 
you  annoyance  and  pain." 

She  turned  the  handle  and  was  gone. 

"  Eliza !  "  cried  Constantia,  starting  from  her  seat 
in  kind  dismay. 

61 


Life  the  Accuser. 

But  the  hurrying  feet  went  too  quickly.  Constan- 
tia  turned  back  to  the  window.  Glancing  at  the 
clock,  she  saw  that  the  hands  were  moving  close  on 
to  seven.  Possibly  her  husband  had  already  ar- 
rived ;  she  opened  the  door  and  went  out  a  second 
time,  and  stood  leaning  over  the  banisters  to  listen ; 
then,  once  more,  called  his  name  softly. 

Silence  followed  the  first  attempt;  a  second 
brought  after  it  a  sound  of  feet  in  a  great  hurry, 
and  a  small  boy  appeared  in  the  hall  beneath.  He 
was  breathless,  dirty,  and  voluble ;  he  raced  up 
the  stairs,  talking  in  gasps  of  excitement  as  he 
came,  his  sentences  being  interspersed  by  cries  of 
"  Mother  !  "  and  he  made,  without  pause  straight 
at  the  cool  lavender-hued  gown,  and  burrowed  his 
curly  head  into  the  soft  and  perfumed  folds.  A 
casual  glance  at  the  face  had  caused  him  to  antici- 
pate reproach. 

The  gong  struck  for  dinner. 

"  Ted !  Ted  !  "  said  Constantia,  reprovingly, 
"have  you  washed  your  hands?" 

The  face  came  out  from  its  refuge  red  and  ruffled, 
the  eyes  dancing  with  mirth. 

"  You  are  a  shocking  grimy  boy  !  And  the  din- 
ner-gong has  struck  !  Where  is  father?  " 

"  He  has  n't  come  in.  But  come  along,  mother  ! 
If  he  is  n't  there  I  can  sit  in  his  place  and  say  : 
*  Charles,  fill  your  mistress's  glass  with  claret.' " 

Constantia  caressed  the  curly  head. 

"I  don't  know  what  father  will  say,"  said  she. 
62 


Hot  Summer. 

"  But  go  and  make  yourself  tidy  first  while  I  change 
my  dress." 

Ted,  from  long  experience,  knew  that  the  com- 
promise was  effected ;  and  in  the  end  the  two  pro- 
ceeded to  the  dining-room  together.  The  master 
of  the  house  was  absent.  Ted  got  his  wish,  and 
sat  in  his  father's  chair  and  embarrassed  the  butler 
by  his  orders.  His  mother  seated  opposite  fell  in 
with  his  humour  and  smiled  at  her  small  vis-a-vis, 
and  listened  to  his  account  of  the  adventures  of  the 
day.  There  was  hardly  opportunity  for  feeling  that 
Norman  was  away. 

It  was  after  Ted  had  gone  to  bed  that  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  absence  became  again  oppressive. 
And  to  lose  the  pertinacity  of  the  feeling  she  left 
the  drawing-room  and  went  into  the  garden. 

It  was  a  beautiful  still  night,  the  darkness  too 
pale  to  be  illumined  by  many  stars ;  dying  colours 
were  visible  on  the  horizon,  night  clasping  a  fainting 
day  upon  its  breast.  Not  a  breath  stirred,  and  the 
scent  of  flowers  rose  heavily.  From  the  windows 
of  the  front  rooms  patches  of  light  fell  on  the  ter- 
race, and  in  and  out  of  them  the  quiet  meditative 
figure  of  Constantia  passed,  rolling  small  stones  of 
the  gravel  with  a  tiny  rustle  of  her  skirts. 

The  Manor  House,  beneath  whose  ivy-covered 
historic  walls  she  paced,  had  been  her  home  ever 
since  her  marriage  ;  her  existence  amid  these  estab- 
lished surroundings  was  an  additional  element  in 
forming  within  her  life  and  character  the  sense  of 
63 


Life  the  Accuser. 

unassailable  tranquillity  and  happy  security  to  which 
nature  predisposed  her.  It  was  the  peculiar  at- 
traction of  her  personality  that  nothing  in  the  nature 
of  fretful  anxiety  rippled  the  deep  leisure  of  her 
feeling  towards  men  and  things.  There  was  time 
as  well  as  depth  in  her  sympathy.  Life  had  been 
indulgent  to  her  mellowing. 

Through  the  quiet  of  the  night  sounds  travelled 
far.  She  heard  the  striking  of  the  hour  from  the 
church  clock  and  the  hum,  small  as  the  flight  of 
bees,  which  told  that  the  commoner,  more  urgent 
life  of  the  village  was  still  awake.  She  touched  that 
life  chiefly  by  her  benevolences,  her  own  existence 
being  set  apart.  She  learned  human  woe  as  through 
a  mirror,  leaning  towards  it  with  sad  wondering 
eyes,  and  extending  over  it  healing  hands,  but  not 
in  her  own  heart  knowing  the  smart  of  it.  She  was 
the  woman  sheltered  by  the  man,  placed  by  his 
pride  and  love  in  an  enchanted  tower,  and  locked 
therein  by  the  secret  invisible  key  of  jealous  de- 
fence. 

The  drawing-room  when  she  returned  to  it  was 
still  empty.  In  the  continued  absence  of  her  hus- 
band it  was  difficult  to  set  to  any  occupation.  She 
seated  herself  upon  the  sofa  with  a  sense  of  languid 
depression,  and  leaning  back  amongst  the  cushions 
fell  suddenly  into  deep  slumber. 

The  sleep  was  filled  by  a  dream  —  by  a  visionary 
uneasiness  at  variance  with  her  habitual  peace.  It 
may  be  that  through  the  doors  left  unprotected  by 
64 


Hot  Summer. 

vigilant  reason,  the  restless  spirits  of  the  earth  crept 
in  to  touch  the  sensitive  fabric  of  her  mind  with 
desolating  fingers,  and  to  write  upon  it  their 
warning. 

She  thought  in  her  dream  that  she  stood  again 
outside  on  the  terrace  of  her  home ;  but  in  place 
of  the  evening  peace  of  the  old-fashioned  garden, 
she  saw  the  familiar  scene  dissolve  into  disaster  and 
chaos,  while  the  house,  to  which  she  turned  as  to 
an  habitual  refuge,  met  her  by  a  strange  and  treach- 
erous repulse  —  inanimate  things  filled  by  conscious 
malice  —  the  bolts  and  bars  of  the  door  and  win- 
dows shooting  themselves  back  against  her  entry, 
as  under  invisible  hands. 

Constantia  gave  a  start  forward  and  woke  with  a 
cry  on  her  lips,  to  find  that  the  click  of  Norman's 
latchkey  was  in  her  ears.  He  was  coming  in  by  a 
side  door,  and  as  she  rose  to  meet  him  it  faintly 
passed  her  mind  that  she  did  not  remember  his 
coming  in  at  night  by  that  particular  entrance  be- 
fore. The  door  did  not  open  promptly,  he  seemed 
to  fumble  with  the  key,  and  then  as  she  advanced, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  it,  it  was  pushed  open  quietly, 
almost  stealthily.  She  saw  the  pale  summer  dark- 
ness of  the  sky  behind  a  branch  darkly  etched 
against  it,  and  a  faint  star  in  the  heavens,  and  the 
form  of  her  husband  upon  the  threshold.  Gladness 
at  his  appearance  sounded  in  her  voice. 

"  Norman  !     I  have  waited  so  long !  "  she  cried. 

The  words  dropped  upon  an  embarrassed  silence. 
5  65 


Life  the  Accuser. 

She  had  run  towards  him,  and  caught  at  his  arm 
with  her  hands ;  her  breast  pressed  it.  From  the 
touch  she  received  a  strange  impression  of  his 
agitation. 

"  Why  !  "  cried  she,  "  your  heart  beats  against 
my  hand.  Come  into  the  light  that  I  may  see 
you." 

Norman  freed  himself  from  his  wife's  clinging 
fingers,  came  forward,  and  stooped  down. 

"  Let  me  get  my  boots  off,"  said  he ;  "  you 
startled  me.  Yes.  I  am  very  late.  I  thought  you 
would  have  been  in  bed." 

He  sat  upon  a  chair  and  occupied  himself  with 
his  bootlaces.  Constantia  stood  for  the  moment 
amazed,  but  only  for  the  moment;  her  mind  in- 
stantly excusing  what  was  unusual  by  a  vague  refer- 
ence to  something  that  had  possibly  happened  in 
the  "City."  Outside  the  peaceful  home  things 
often  went  wrong,  and  reverberations  of  trouble 
would  be  carried  in  her  husband's  voice.  As  a 
rule,  indeed,  he  discarded  "  business "  on  the 
threshold,  or  permitted  it  only  to  reach  her  in  inti- 
mate confidences  that  increased  her  sense  of  one- 
ness with  him.  She  was  the  last  to  allow  personal 
trifles  to  change  her  bearing,  and  at  once  dropped 
her  surprise  into  that  zone  of  the  temperate  in 
which  it  was  her  habit  to  exist. 

"Your  slippers,  dearest,"  was  all  that  escaped 
her ;  "  I  will  fetch  them." 

He  raised  his  head. 

66 


Hot  Summer. 

"  No ;  I  do  not  like  your  doing  things  of  the 
kind  for  me.  Where  is  Ted?" 

"  In  bed  long  ago,  Norman." 

The  wonder  increased. 

"To  be  sure.  I  had  forgotten.  I  will  fetch 
them  myself.  I  will  follow  you  to  the  drawing- 
room  directly." 

His  wish  to  be  alone  was  expressed  by  his  man- 
ner. Constantia  moved  away.  The  soft  chiming 
of  a  clock  announced  that  it  was  a  quarter  to  mid- 
night. She  passed  down  the  hall  between  the  array 
of  portraits  and  ancestral  curiosities,  her  aspect 
nobly  feminine,  her  walk  neither  a  march  nor  a 
glide,  but  steady  and  tranquil,  with  the  flow  of  lacy 
skirts  about  it.  She  carried  the  dignity  of  the  house 
well.  Norman  glancing  after  her  thought  so,  and 
wondered  —  and  went  on  unlacing  his  boots.  She 
passed  into  the  drawing-room  and  remained  there 
awaiting  him.  Her  face  had  been  subtly  changed 
by  his  presence.  There  was  not  merely  the  stirring 
of  affection,  as  when  a  loved  friend  approaches, 
but  she  had  the  look  —  pleasant,  dignified,  some- 
thing between  resistance  and  a  gentle  elation  — 
which  women  wear  because  of  men,  as  though  their 
coming  opened  the  door  to  a  world  towards  which 
they  yearn,  but  which  is  not  altogether  theirs. 

She  heard  her  husband  run  lightly  upstairs  to  his 

dressing-room ;  five  minutes  later  his  step  was  on 

the  stair  again.    By  this  time  she  was  on  the  hearth, 

one  hand  resting  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and  looking 

67 


Life  the  Accuser. 

towards  the  door.  When  Norman  entered  he  wore 
the  air  of  courteous,  somewhat  ceremonious,  rever- 
ence which  was  his  habitual  demeanour  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  beautiful  wife.  He  came  up  to  her  and 
took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  in  the  way  to  which  she 
had  been  accustomed  all  the  days  of  their  life  to- 
gether ;  and  he  inquired  how  she  had  spent  her  time. 

"  Irene  has  been  here.  But  what  detained  you, 
Norman  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  over  to  the  Armstrongs'  place." 
He  passed  his  hand  over  his  beard  with  the  musing 
smile  of  a  confident  man.  "  It  was  the  old  fellow 
who  invited  me.  The  younger  I  have  not  quite 
fathomed.  He  is  not  merely  shallow." 

"You  mean  Edward?" 

"  Yes :  he  gives  out  false  notes  if  you  hit  him 
unprepared.  He  has  a  suspicious  fluency.  I  am 
reminded  of  an  advertising  agent  of  bogus  pills." 

"  I  dislike  him,"  said  Constantia,  with  feminine 
emphasis ;  "  what  is  his  conduct  to  his  sisters  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  in  the  domestic  secrets.  I  should 
say  that  he  had  a  rough  side.  The  Armstrongs  are 
too  new  to  be  civilised.  But  what  of  the  sisters?" 

"  Eliza  called  here  to-day." 

"  A  very  unattractive  personality." 

"  Oh  !  she  has  a  fine  underlying  character,  and, 
I  think,  genius." 

"  A  man  does  not  care  to  probe  deep  into  femi- 
nine eccentricity.  The  charm  should  be  expressive. 
How  about  Ted?" 

68 


Hot  Summer. 

"  He  has  been  so  sweet  to-day,  dearest." 

The  father  and  the  mother  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  and  smiled.  That  was  an  intimate 
moment.  Constantia  brought  her  shoulder  against 
the  hollow  of  his  arm. 

"All  the  same,"  said  Dayntree,  as  though  think- 
ing aloud,  "  I  may  have  to  see  a  good  deal  of  Eliza 
Armstrong  in  the  future  !  " 

"How  is  that?" 

"  One  of  the  secrets  that  I  confide  to  my  wife. 
Old  Armstrong  is,  I  believe,  a  man  haunted  by  a  past. 
His  face  has  a  padlock  look,  as  though  he  feared  his 
secrets  would  be  rifled.  I  have  the  advantage  ot  be- 
ing a  stranger,  eminent  enough,  far  enough  away,  to  be 
trusted.  He  sent  to  me  to  make  a  singular  proposal." 

"Yes?" 

"  He  desired  me  to  become  sole  executor  of  his 
property  under  his  will." 

"  That  is  unusual  ?  " 

"Very.  I  hesitated.  But,  after  all,  why  not? 
The  old  man's  eyes  were  haggard  with  their  thought. 
I  could  hardly  refuse  him.  He  laid  stress  on  it. 
And  the  will  is  a  simple  one." 

"  And  you  accepted  ?  " 

"Yes.  The  will  is  too  simple  to  involve  me 
in  serious  trouble.  I  have  but  to  divide  his  prop- 
erty fairly — there  is  no  trusteeship.  And  one 
cannot  refuse  a  neighbourly  act  to  an  old  fellow 
standing  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  with  a 
constitutional  terror  of  life  troubling  him.  I  believe 


Life  the  Accuser. 

he  distrusts  his  son.  He  was  relieved  by  my 
consent." 

"  And  I  am  glad.  At  least  you  will  see  that 
Eliza  receives  just  treatment." 

"  I  shall  do  that." 

"Ah,  thanks  !     Poor  little  Eliza  is  safe  then." 

"You  take  too  many  protegees  into  that  great 
heart  of  yours,"  said  he,  smiling  at  the  proud  assur- 
ance of  her  look. 

"  There  is  room  for  them  all,"  said  she ;  "  and 
have  you  not  got  Evan  for  your  own  ?  " 


70 


Hot  Summer. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  Trelyons'  drawing-room  was  a  long  place 
divided  in  the  centre  by  folding-doors  which  Mrs. 
Trelyon  preferred  to  keep  closed. 

Originally  the  place  had  been  furnished  in  the 
Louis  Quinze  style ;  and  the  rather  faded  cool- 
coloured  carpet  with  its  sketchy  groups  of  flowers, 
the  painting .  on  the  walls  and  panels,  and  the 
polished  civilisation  of  the  furniture  remained,  but 
the  effect,  suavely  uncompromising,  was  bewildered 
by  the  bizarre  introduction  of  a  multitude  of  foreign 
things  —  handsome  rags  of  costly  embroidery,  odd- 
shaped  and  brightly  coloured  objects,  screens,  fans, 
exotics  —  all  of  them  products  and  inventions  of  a 
sunny  clime,  and  all  needing  brilliant  light  to  carry 
their  effect. 

Mrs.  Trelyon  preferred  things  in  shade. 

Irene  Severne,  speculating  upon  the  strange  taste 
which  permitted  in  a  room  of  habitual  occupation 
so  incongruous  a  jumble  as  to  suggest  the  hasty 
transplanting  of  the  contents  of  a  heathem  temple 
to  a  European  fireside,  sometimes  fancied  that  she 
caught  Mrs.  Trelyon's  abstracted  eyes  wandering 
71 


Life  the  Accuser. 

over  the  idolatrous  miscellany  with  a  sarcastic  ray 
in  them. 

On  this  hot  afternoon  of  Irene's  early  call,  the 
light  wherever  possible  had  been  extinguished  or 
modified,  and  Mrs.  Trelyon,  from^a  comfortable 
lounge,  talked  to  her  guest  in  a  fatigued  voice  that 
matched  the  semi-darkness. 

Suddenly  the  folding-doors  were  pushed  back, 
and  a  stream  of  sunlight  ran  along  the  floor  and 
leapt  to  the  polished  points  of  the  furniture  and  the 
barbaric  tinsel.  Mrs.  Trelyon  closed  her  large- 
lidded  eyes,  and  Irene  turned  with  an  expectant 
smile.  In  the  middle  of  the  light  stood  Rosalie, 
holding  a  cricket  bat  and  wearing  on  her  head  a 
scarlet  knitted  cap.  Her  hair  escaped  from  under 
it  in  a  dark  fluffy  cloud,  edged  by  sunlight ;  her 
dress,  a  bright-tinted  cotton,  oddly  mitigated  by  a 
black  sash  for  mourning,  was  short,  loose,  and 
scanty;  her  poise,  as  she  stood  hesitating  for  a 
moment  to  peer  into  the  darkness,  was  easy  and 
graceful.  With  her  bat  and  her  careless  head-gear, 
she  looked  like  a  tall,  unconscious  child.  The 
moment  afterwards,  as  she  passed  down  the  room 
towards  Miss  Seveoae..  the  equilibrium  of  her  bear- 
ing, her  power  of  throwing  out  a  charmed  circle  of 
distance  around  her  own  personality,  a  hint  of  ex- 
perience in  her  splendid  eyes,  and,  above  all,  her 
soft,  ripe  voice,  corrected  the  impression. 

Irene  Severne  considered  Rosalie  a  departure 
from  anything  she  had  ever  encountered  before,  and 
72 


Hot  Summer. 

for  this  reason  was  inclined  to  favour  her ;  for  Irene 
preferred  new  types  to  routine  individuals.  As  the 
girl  advanced  she  held  out  her  hand  with  a  smile ; 
Rosalie  smiled  a  little  too. 

"  Miss  Severne,  come  out  with  me,"  said  she ; 
"  mother,  your  head  aches  ;  it  always  does,  and  you 
will  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  your  visitor.  I  like  this  one 
of  our  guests,  and  I  mean  to  entertain  her.  She 
shall  come  out  with  me  instead  of  staying  in  here 
in  an  over-scented  room  boring  you  —  and  herself " 

Irene  started  a  little,  and  slightly  coloured.  What 
Rosalie  said  was  so  obviously  true  that  she  was 
naturally  anxious  to  deny  it. 

"  Come,"  said  Rosalie,  softly,  "  you  have  really 
not  the  occasion  to  invent." 

Irene,  who  had  not  spoken,  rose. 

"  Show  Miss  Severne  the  rose-garden,"  said  Mrs. 
Trelyon,  suavely. 

"If  you  wish  it,  mother.  But  Miss  Severne 
would  certainly  prefer  the  loft  or  the  hay-field." 

"As  you  wish." 

Mrs.  Trelyon  waved  a  white  hand  in  dismissal. 
Irene,  who  was  being  hurried  towards  the  folding- 
doors,  glanced  back,  and  saw  her  in  rumpled  and 
tarnished  mourning  sinking  to  the  cushions  with  an 
air  of  relief. 

"  Rosalie !  " 

The    pair    were   already   half  across   the   outer 
drawing-room,  and  Rosalie  had  closed  the  folding- 
doors.     Mrs.  Trelyon's  voice  was  a  little  raised. 
73 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"Well,  mother?" 

"  If  you  go  to  the  loft  or  the  hayfield,  take  Miss 
Glynn." 

Rosalie,  who  was  at  the  moment  ushering  Irene 
into  the  hall,  smiled  to  herself,  but  she  obeyed. 

She  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  and  called  — 

"  Glynn  ! " 

Irene  waited  on  events.  The  monosyllable  was 
twice  repeated.  After  the  third  a  commotion,  com- 
posed of  a  slamming  door,  slippers,  a  skirt,  and  a 
voice,  was  heard  above.  It  came  on  towards  the 
banisters,  over  which  at  length  the  head  of  a  middle- 
aged  lady  was  •  thrust.  A  loud  tremulous  whisper 
came  down  the  stairs. 

"  My  dear  Rosalie  —  the  footman  !  The  footman, 
Rosalie  !  Consider,  my  love  !  " 

"What  is  wrong  with  the  footman?  Come  down, 
Glynn.  You  are  required  to  chaperon  me  into  the 
hayfield  and  the  loft.  You  will  have  to  climb  a 
ladder.  Miss  Severne  is  here." 

"  Hem  ! " 

Miss  Glynn,  perceiving  an  eminent  stranger, 
scuttled  downstairs  in  effusive  hurry,  with  a  smile 
nicely  compounded  of  an  apologetic  sense  of  in- 
ferior station  and  a  consciousness  of  merit. 

"  There  7s  no  time  for  a  bonnet,  Glynn,  nor  for 
curling  your  fringe,  nor  changing  your  old  comfort- 
able boots  for  some  that  pinch.  Miss  Severne  and 
I  are  in  a  breathless  hurry.  Take  that  parasol  and 
come  ! " 

74 


Hot  Summer. 

Miss  Glynn  found  her  version  of  an  elegant  bow 
cut  short.  She  was  scarcely  able  to  determine 
whether  or  no  she  was  smitten  to  the  heart  by  the 
girl's  words.  She  hurried  to  the  umbrella  stand, 
one  hand  nervously  straying  towards  her  hair  to 
gauge  the  extent  of  the  disorder,  the  other  ready  to 
seek  out  the  most  prosaic  amongst  the  bright-hued 
sunshades.  She  selected  an  old  brown  thing  in 
favour  of  crimson.  It  was  not  that  she  did  not  pre- 
fer the  latter;  her  genuine  taste  in  colour  was 
furious ;  but  a  stern  interior  monitress  kept  pluck- 
ing back  any  small  vital  promptings  which  she  might 
have  had.  She  dieted  on  shreds,  and  called  it 
merit ;  conduct  to  her  meant  contortion ;  as  to 
nature,  the  very  paroquets,  had  she  had  her  way, 
would  have  been  sent  to  the  dyer's  and  reduced 
to  mourning  hues. 

As  Rosalie  ran  forward  to  open  a  side  door,  Miss 
Glynn  had  an  opportunity  of  imparting  some  ex- 
planatory fictions  to  their  guest. 

"  I  find  it  best,"  murmured  she,  looking  anxiously 
at  Irene  Severne,  whose  amused  composure  she 
envied  and  found  "  aristocratic,"  "  to  humour  Miss 
Trelyon.  Her  mother  has  done  me  the  honour  to 
commit  her  to  my  charge.  I  find  her  an  interest- 
ing study,  but  she  requires  moulding''1 

There  was  not  time  for  more ;  they  were  out  in 

the  air  and  the  sunshine,  and  Rosalie  was  by  Miss 

Severne's   side  again.     Miss  Glynn,  the  moulder, 

still  assiduously  seeking  opportunities  to  pat  down 

75 


Life  the  Accuser. 

her  hair,  followed  her  charge  with  anxious  eyes. 
They  passed  the  lawn  where  little  Ted  was 
found  before  a  wicket,  a  bat  in  his  hand,  medita- 
tively practising  the  attitudes  of  manhood  in  shirt- 
sleeves. 

"  Rosalie  !  you  promised  to  come  back.  Aunt 
Irene,  where  are  you  taking  her?"  shouted  he, 
dropping  back  to  childhood. 

"  I  think  Rosalie  is  taking  me,  Ted,"  said  Irene. 

"Well!  she  promised.  I  call  it  right  down 
mean." 

Rosalie  ran  to  the  boy,  and  knelt  on  the  grass  so 
as  to  bring  her  face  on  a  level  with  his. 

"  Ted !  we  will  go  to  the  loft,"  said  she  ;  "isn't 
that  better?" 

Her  face  was  full  of  soft  colour  and  coaxing  dim- 
ples. Ted's  large  eyes  stared  into  it ;  he  found 
himself  vaguely  .affected,  and  his  indignation 
melted. 

"  Be  quick  then,"  said  he  ;  '"promise." 

"  But  won't  you  come  ?  " 

"  No.  It  won't  be  any  fun  in  the  loft.  I  don't 
so  much  mind  Aunt  Irene,  but  you  won't  get  that 
old  lady  to  make  slides  down  the  hay.  Where  have 
you  hidden  the  bath  with  the  tadpoles  in?" 

Ted  appeased,  the  trio  went  on.  Miss  Glynn's 
anxiety  increased  when  they  turned  from  the  well- 
ordered  gardens  towards  the  back  parts  and  the 
fields.  She  walked  in  protest.  Rosalie,  always  a 
little  in  front,  made  a  picture  of  elastic  vigour  and 


Hot  Summer. 

beautiful  swaying  slimness  charming  to  the  eye. 
Every  now  and  then  she  raised  her  head,  taking 
deep  looks  into  the  foliage  where  the  light  played 
and  the  bees  hummed.  Her  senses  pastured  on 
the  beauty  of  things,  and  the  freedom  and  the  air. 
Pausing  with  her  hand  on  a  small  iron  gate,  she 
turned  back  to  Irene.  Her  face  under  the  scarlet 
cap,  caught  thus  after  an  interval,  was  astonishingly 
vivid  and  softly  brilliant ;  to  Irene's  imagination  it 
seemed  to  blossom  out  of  the  air  itself,  weaved  of 
light  and  colour  and  joy  and  health  and  change- 
fulness.  The  voice,  when  she  spoke,  so  strangely 
ripe  and  full,  deepened  the  impression,  though  the 
words  were  nothing. 

"Would  you  prefer  the  loft  or  the  field?"  said 
she. 

"I  think  the  field,"  returned  Irene,  in  secret 
deference  to  the  tremors  of  Miss  Glynn. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Rosalie,  "the  light  is  too 
beautiful  to  lose." 

"  In  the  west  from  which  you  came  there  is  so 
much  sunshine." 

"  And  freedom,"  added  Rosalie. 

"Do  you  find  us  in  England  so  very  conven- 
tional?" asked  Irene. 

"There  is  conventionality  everywhere,"  said 
Rosalie ;  "  use  brings  it  about.  But  in  England  I 
find  you  chiefly  absurd." 

Miss  Glynn,  in  duty  and  fear,  was  incoherent  but 
deprecatory  under  her  parasol. 
77 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Glynn  would  have  me  lie,"  said  the  girl,  tran- 
quilly;  "she  is  here  to  teach  me  to  do  it.  Miss 
Severne,  let  us  sit  down  on  those  haycocks  under 
the  trees  ;  you  will  get  a  glimpse  of  the  pond ;  the 
ripples  of  it  and  the  sky  give  me  the  best  suggestions 
of  liberty  I  can  get  here." 

"  Liberty  is  a  beautiful  word,"  said  Irene,  softly. 

Miss  Glynn  seated  herself  on  a  haycock  at  a  little 
distance  in  an  attitude  of  decorum,  one  hand  still 
endeavouring  to  bring  order  amidst  the  little  wisps 
of  her  hair.  She  was,  Irene  thought,  an  almost 
pathetic  figure  of  the  keeper  led  about  by  the  kept. 

Rosalie  sank  into  the  dry  grass  with  a.  luxurious 
sigh,  throwing  herself  down  at  full  length ;  her  hands 
were  under  her  head;  her  breast  rose  and  fell. 
The  eyes  of  Irene,  the  fair  English-trained  woman, 
wandered  over  her  with  an  unwilling,  fascinated 
look ;  the  figure  was  beautiful  as  a  statue,  but  then 
it  was  almost  as  expressive. 

"What  makes  you  and  Eliza  Armstrong  such 
great  friends?"  asked  she,  suddenly. 

"  Because  in  one  department  of  our  natures  we 
suit,"  returned  Rosalie  ;  "  we  meet  on  that.  Eliza 
is  a  wild  bird  with  a  cut  wing." 

"Is  she?" 

"Yes.  And  I  am  a  bird  whose  wing  has  not 
been  cut.  Miss  Severne,  I  see  under  my  lids  a 
field-mouse,  brown,  soft,  staring  at  us  with  his  bright 
eyes  from  between  the  blades  of  grass.  His  heart 
is  thumping.  Softly  !  " 


Hot  Summer. 

"  Where  ?  where  ?  "  screamed  Miss  Glynn,  clutch- 
ing at  her  skirts. 

"  Idiot ! "  said  Rosalie,  without  deigning  to 
turn  her  head ;  "  you  have  frightened  my  little 
brother." 

"  I  saw  him,  Rosalie,"  said  Irene,  quickly,  "  pretty 
little  fellow !  " 

And  at  the  same  moment  she  put  out  a  kind  hand 
to  soothe  the  lady  wounded  by  the  word.  Miss 
Glynn  was  still  fidgeting  and  searching. 

"Come,"  said  Rosalie;  "Glynn  will  have  no 
peace  until  we  are  out  of  this  region  of  monsters. 
She  weeps  at  a  spider.  It  is  part  of  the  con- 
vention." 

"  I  have  a  sensitive  nature,"  explained  Miss 
Glynn,  "  and  —  I  am  told  —  I  believe  —  a  weak 
heart." 

Rosalie  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  You  showed  neither  a  weak  heart  nor  sensitive- 
ness when  you  stamped  on  the  earwig  last  night. 
Come  !  the  haymakers  are  going  back  to  their  work. 
They  have  had  tea  and  will  finish  to-night.  Splendid 
fellows  they  look !  You  see  that  gate  ?  It  is 
always  kept  locked.  They  will  undo  it  now  — 
undo  it  for  you,  Glynn.  I  can  dispense  with  a  key." 

So  saying,  the  girl  ran  down  a  slope  towards  a  gate 
at  the  bottom  of  the  field. 

A  procession  of  young  labourers  was  approaching 
it  at  the  moment.  She  reached  it  before  them. 
Her  hands  touched  the  top  in  a  white  flashing 
79 


Life  the  Accuser. 

moment,  and  her  beautiful  body  flew  over  the  barrier 
with  a  light  rustle  of  raiment. 

The  labourers  stopped,  clustered  together,  and 
shouldered  one  another.  Looks  of  sleepy  admira- 
tion stole  from  face  to  face.  Rosalie  stood  on  the 
other  side  in  cool  unconcern,  pushing  the  falling 
hair  back  from  her  neck,  and  panting  gently.  She 
looked  scarcely  more  conscious  than  a  doe. 

Miss  Glynn  was  hurrying  down  the  slope,  anger 
bursting  over  her  countenance. 

"  She  did  it  as  a  display  —  before  men  —  before 
labourers  on  the  grounds,'7  she  cried  to  Irene. 

One  of  the  labourers  unlocked  the  gate  and  held 
it  open,  while  the  other  men  trooped  through  fol- 
lowed by  Miss  Glynn,  who  immediately  planted  her- 
self by  Rosalie.  Irene  had  descended  the  slope 
more  at  leisure  ;  the  man  at  the  gate  looked  towards 
her ;  she  passed  through  and  thanked  him.  He  fas- 
tened it  again,  turned  away  indifferently,  and  walked 
off  to  his  work.  Rosalie  stood  watching  every  one 
of  his  actions. 

"  Let  us  sit  here,"  said  she,  leading  the  way  to  a 
pleasant  spot. 

They  all  seated  themselves  again.  Rosalie  took 
up  her  position  much  more  staidly  than  before,  and 
sat  for  a  long  time  in  silence.  She  still  followed 
the  labourer  with  her  eyes ;  in  her  face  was  much 
the  same  expression  with  which  she  had  looked 
at  the  field-mouse.  Miss  Glynn  shed  a  tear  or  two 
under  her  sunshade. 

80 


Hot  Summer. 

"  This  is  a  strange,  beautiful,  dangerous  nature," 
thought  Irene  to  herself. 

She  watched  the  expression  deepening  in  her 
features,  it  seemed  to  burn  slowly  up  and  open 
vividly  in  the  eyes  at  last — as  coloured  petals  break 
out  from  the  sheath.  But  the  face  was  older  for 
bearing  it,  as  the  flower  is  older  than  the  bud ;  and 
Irene  hardly  knew  whether  it  lightened  or  threw 
a  shadow  over  it.  Could  she  have  painted  an  im- 
personation of  the  evening,  she  would  have  set  there 
the  look  of  Rosalie's,  —  neither  young  nor  old,  but 
written  over  with  nature's  impress  rather  than  per- 
sonal memories ;  she  could  have  dreamed  that 
thought  was  obliterated  in  sensation,  subtle,  har- 
monious,  and  varied  as  the  hour ;  within  it  also 
was  the  restless  human  touch,  —  the  outstretch  and 
yearning.  Songs  of  birds  were  in  the  air,  the  scent 
of  wild  roses  came  from  the  hedge,  a  warm  grassy 
smell  rose  from  the  earth,  ripples  of  sunlight,  heat, 
and  colour  came  and  went  on  the  wings  of  dancing 
creatures.  Rosalie's  eyes  still  followed  the  man  of 
the  fields. 

"  Watch  him  take  the  step  forward,"  she  cried, 
"  and  stoop  to  the  scythe  with  the  swing  of  his  arms 
round.  The  sunlight  runs  along  the  blade  and 
bites  the  edge,  and  the  edge  bites  the  grass ;  and 
the  grass  tosses  the  light  and  falls  to  his  will  with 
a  little  rustle.  So  he  reaps  earth's  fruit.  There 
is  only  one  thing  better  than  the  reaper.  That  is 
the  reaped." 

6  81 


Life  the  Accuser. 

•  "  Yes,"  said  Irene,  rather  vaguely. 

"  But  have  you  ever  wished  to  be  a  working  girl, 
brown,  untidy,  with  burnt  hair  and  bare  feet,  and  to 
belong  to  a  strong  sinewy  splendid  man  like  that? 
To  be  in  his  power  ?" 

Miss  Glynn  screamed  like  a  hare ;  and  a  startled 
look  shot  over  Irene's  delicate  face.  She  glanced 
at  the  girl's  pearly  ears,  almost  expecting  to  find 
them  pointed.  A  sense  of  civilisation  weighted  her 
heart.  She  souglxt  for  the  right  word  and  discarded 
all  she  found. 

"What  makes  you  say  it?  "  said  she,  presently. 

"Because  it  is  there.  It  is  part  of  the  colour 
and  light  and  the  sounds  and  the  warmth.  It 
comes  out  of  the  earth.  It  is  in  me  —  in  you  too." 

"  I  believe  you  are  probably  right,  Rosalie,"  said 
Irene;  "as  you  speak  it,  it  sounds  to  me  simple 
and  natural ;  so  that  I  cannot  believe  I  have  been 
without  the  feeling.  You  translate  it;  I  should 
not;  that  is  the  difference.77 

By  this  time  the  incoherent  anger  and  alarm  of 
Miss  Glynn  had  risen  to  the  point  of  expression ; 
she  was  scandalised  at  Miss  Severne's  participation  ; 
a  sense  of  duty  was  urgent. 

"  I  have  no  words  to  express  my  disapproval," 
she  began ;  "  the  hint  of  such  a  thing  on  the  part 
of  a  young  lady — you  ought  not  even  to  think. 

Rosalie,  not  even  to  think I  am  incoherent, 

Miss  Severne,  but  my  mind  is,  I  hope,  so  constituted 
that  I  can  hardly  in  delicacy  frame  a  sentence  — 
82 


Hot  Summer. 

She  broke  off  with  a  drawn  lip  and  offended  air, 
and  then  suddenly  ejaculated  in  smothered  accents  — 

"  A  man  in  corduroy  trousers  !  " 

Rosalie  got  up  from  the  ground  and  gave  her 
hand  to  Irene  to  help  her  to  rise. 

"Come,"  said  she,  addressing  herself  to  Miss 
Glynn,  "  you  piece  of  discord  !  We  are  going  back 
to  the  over-scented  drawing-room  and  all  the  vari- 
ous pretences  you  love.  When  I  look  into  your 
mind  I  seem  to  see  a  ruled  copy-book  with  polite 
maxims  in  copperplate  handwriting.  When  I  at- 
tempt to  get  a  glimpse  of  your  nature,  I  am  re- 
minded of  Euclid's  definition  of  a  point.  As  to 
myself,  you  mistake  when  you  address  me  as  a 
young  lady.  I  am  no  such  thing.  Primarily  I  am, 
with  other  men,  an  animal,  and  my  sex  is  feminine. 
I  am  young,  vigorous,  and  ready  for  any  pleasant 
emotions  that  are  going.  My  temperament  is  sen- 
suous, and  my  intellect  has  a  touch  of  cynicism  ;  I 
have  no  notion  of  concealment  of  facts  which  are 
patent  to  every  one  as  part  of  our  common  nature. 
I  pursue  what  I  find  good,  and  intend  to  do  so. 
You  can  give  notice  if  you  like,  Glynn,  for  you  are 
in  a  ridiculous  position.  I  am  absolutely  indiffer- 
ent to  your  opinion,  for  I  find  you  not  only  imbecile 
but  also  a  humbug.  I  suspect  —  no,  I  am  sure  — 
that  the  row  of  books  with  rigid  bindings  and  reli- 
gious titles  that  you  keep  in  your  bedroom  are 
only  covers  for  improper  printed  matter." 

Then  she  walked  forward  by  Irene's  side,  the 

83 


Life  the  Accuser. 

chaperone  following  in  silence.  The  hint  about  giv- 
ing notice  had  terrified  her,  and  angry  protest  and 
moral  asseveration  were  lost  in  the  anxious  inquiry 
how  so  to  manage  her  tactics  between  mother  and 
daughter  as  to  keep  her  place.  On  their  return  to 
the  lawn,  Ted  was  found  there  bending  over  a  tin 
bath.  He  was  eagerly  inspecting  the  manoeuvres 
of  some  tadpoles  which  Rosalie  had  collected  for 
him  within. 

"  I  'm  saving  the  little  frogs,"  said  he,  when  the 
shadow  of  the  beautiful  girl  covered  him  ;  "  they 
are  in  my  pocket-handkerchief,  and  they  are  very 
much  obliged  to  me.  You  can  look  at  them  if  you 
like.  I  shall  go  home  with  Aunt  Irene." 

"  There  are  strawberries  and  cream  in  the  draw- 
ing-room," said  Rosalie,  gently. 

Ted's  brown  eyes  deepened  meditatively  to  their 
reflection  in  the  bath. 

"  I  might  stay,"  said  he,  "  if  Aunt  Irene  would 
too.  There  are  lots  of  people  visiting  in  there." 

"Who  has  come?" 

"  Mr.  Edward  Armstrong  for  one.  Does  n't  he 
think  himself  the  swagger  thing  !  " 

And  Ted,  nimbly  rising  to  his  feet,  puffed  out  his 
chest  and  fondled  an  imaginary  moustache.  Rosalie 
went  in  laughing,  accompanied  by  Irene.  The 
drawing-room  was  full  of  guests ;  the  tea-table  was 
spread,  and  Mrs.  Trelyon  was  pouring  out  tea  and 
casting,  between  her  low  musical  sentences,  despair- 
ing glances  at  the  door.  Upon  Rosalie's  appearance, 


Hot  Summer. 

the  scarlet  cap  still  on  her  head,  she  beckoned  her 
daughter,  and  murmured  the  monosyllable  "  Glynn  " 
in  her  ear,  and  Ted,  who  had  crept  in  behind,  was 
dispatched  on  a  message  to  that  lady,  who,  upon 
hearing  that  she  was  wanted,  bounded  up  the  stairs, 
in  joyful  agitation  and  completely  restored  good- 
humour,  to  touch  up  her  fringe  and  to  fling  on  a 
muslin  fichu  over  her  morning  gown,  just  to  give 
sufficient  finish  to  her  attire  to  enable  her  to  take 
her  place  with  satisfaction  to  herself  "  amidst  the 
grace  and  fashion  of  the  county." 


Life  the  Accuser. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MR.  EDWARD  ARMSTRONG  walked  alone  in  his 
father's  garden  at  eventide.  The  light  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  falling  on  his  face,  revealed  him  as  a 
good-looking,  well-fed  person,  of  sanguine  colour- 
ing. His  most  marked  characteristic  was  the  rise 
of  a  curling  mass  of  very  beautiful  brown  hair  from 
a  white  brow ;  the  least  noticeable,  was  a  slight  ten- 
dency of  the  feet  to  turn  inwards. 

"The  thing  will  pan  out  right  enough,  if  only 
father  has  seen  where  his  plain  duty  lies,"  said  the 
young  man  to  himself,  staring  at  the  horizon  with  a 
frown ;  "  if  he  has  not,  the  very  deuce  is  in  it. 
Take  the  round  sum  as  two  hundred  thousand. 
Divide  that  by  five " 

It  was  a  habit  of  Edward's  to  be  continually 
doing  sums. 

A  constant  fret  in  the  smooth  life  of  the  young 
man  lay  in  the  fact  that  his  father,  the  most  yield- 
ing of  men  in  many  points,  had  a  few  prejudices, 
from  which  no  persuasion  could  induce  him  to 
budge.  One  was  an  extreme  reticence  on  the 
subject  of  his  fortune.  He  would  impart  neither 
the  amount  nor  the  event  which  had  placed  him 
86 


Hot  Summer. 

in  a  position  to  acquire  it.  Edward  hated  cotton, 
because  the  very  word  suggested  to  him  a  possi- 
bility of  extreme  obscurity  of  origin.  The  Arm- 
strong children  did  not  know  that  their  father  had 
managed  to  sidle  out  of  the  operative  class  to  which 
he  belonged,  into  the  Olympic  superiority  of  the 
master's  world.  They  knew  there  had  been  a 
l(  rise,"  but  were  not  wholly  aware  from  what  grade 
it  had  begun.  The  "  rise,"  Edward  had  reason  to 
believe,  had  taken  place  very  long  ago  in  the 
thirties,  and  had  connection  with  a  cotton  opera- 
tives' strike,  in  which  "  Ovvd  Union  John "  had 
figured  as  a  leader.  There  had  been  a  mob,  he 
believed,  and  some  shooting  from  the  Clough  Mill 
at  Harebarrow ;  he  was  inclined  to  conjecture  that 
his  father's  conduct  had  been  heroic,  besides  being 
marked  by  well-conducted  prudence ;  he  was  sure 
that  their  kinsman,  Mr.  Theophilus  Armstrong, 
must  have  considered  that  he  owed  him  for  some 
inestimable  service;  at  any  rate,  the  collapse  of 
the  strike  had  been  marked  by  the  extraordinary 
promotion  of  his  father,  and  the  casting  of  "  Union 
John "  into  gaol.  From  that  day  to  this  no  com- 
munication whatever  had  passed  between  his  father 
and  this  disreputable  relative.  The  young  Arm- 
strongs, none  of  whom  were  born  when  the  event 
occurred,  regarded  it  as  a  fine  tradition  redounding 
to  credit,  and  found  their  father's  obstinate  refusal 
to  relate  the  incident  significant  of  his  detestation 
of  the  disgrace  brought  upon  them  by  his  cousin. 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Edward  never  for  a  moment  suspected  that  his 
father  had  been  on  an  absolute  equality  with  the 
operative  strike  leader  to  begin  with.  Occasion- 
ally he  excited  himself  by  romantic  theories  as  to 
the  source  of  the  family  :  according  to  these  the- 
ories Cousin  John  Armstrong  had  descended  in 
social  scale,  falling  to  be  "  a  common  workman " 
in  his  youth,  and  momentarily  dragging  his  father 
after  him.  These  theories  his  father  neither  denied 
nor  acquiesced  in.  Mrs.  Armstrong  was,  however, 
not  quite  so  reticent.  The  superior  person  can 
no  more  conceal  his  superiority  than  the  lover  his 
love. 

"  I  should  never  have  married  your  father,"  she 
would  explain  to  the  depressed  ears  of  her  step- 
daughters, "  if  he  had  not  proposed  through  the 
penny  post.  On  his  first  visit  to  me,  after  my  rash 
acceptance  of  him,  I  said  to  myself  as  I  opened 
the  door,  and  my  eyes  fell  upon  him :  '  He  will 
never  do.'" 

Somehow,  taking  one  thing  with  another,  Ed- 
ward felt  himself  to  be  on  perhaps  slippery  ground, 
when  it  came  to  the  question  of  origin,  and  that 
it  would  be  the  part  of  a  skilful  skater  to  bring  him- 
self safely  over.  Perhaps  this  was  at  the  bottom  of 
his  distaste  for  cotton.  At  any  rate,  so  far  from 
encouraging  a  hope  that  he  might  take  up  the 
career  natural  to  an  Armstrong,  he  had,  when  his 
expensive  three  years'  sojourn  at  the  University 
came  to  an  end,  signalised  his  dislike  by  entreating 
88 


Hot  Summer. 

his  father  to  sell  out  of  the   Harebarrow  interest 
altogether,  and  to  invest  his  money  elsewhere. 

Of  late  he  had  been  harassed  by  the  anxious 
question  whether  his  father's  income  was  large 
enough  to  enable  him  in  the  future  to  fulfil  his 
rather  ample  ideas  of  the  conduct  of  life  when  he 
entered  on  his  proposed  career  of  a  rich  man. 

It  was  when  he  came  to  the  divisor  that 
Edward  pulled  up  his  thinking  with  a  frown.  He 
whistled  slowly,  gloom  upon  his  brow,  and  his  eyes 
depressed  to  his  boots. 

"  If  father  had  really  done  his  duty,"  said  he 
to  himself,  "  he  would  have  set  about  founding  a 
Family  long  ago.  He  ought  to  have  concentrated 
himself  on  the  one  end.  If  he  had  only  done  so, 
we  should  have  had  a  clear  field  before  us  by  now, 
and  could  begin  to  live  !  I  am  as  certain  as  a  man 
can  be  of  anything,  that  if  father  had  done  what 
he  ought,  he  would  be  able  to  establish  his  suc- 
cessor in  a  fair  position  in  the  county.  And  that 
was  father's  clear  duty.  Of  course,  all  other  in- 
terests ought  to  be  subordinated  to  that  of  the 
Family.  And  the  thing  cannot  come  out  right  if 
he  has  not  seen  it.  For  let 's  go  back  to  the  round 
figure.  Take  it  again  as  two  hundred  thousand ; 
divide  by  five  —  me,  mother,  Gilbert,  Eliza,  Sylvia. 
Forty  thousand  apiece  is  absurd,  on  the  face  of  it. 
It  is  far  too  little  to  found  a  Family  on,  and  far  too 
much  to  leave  in  the  hands  of  women.  It  is  also 
not  the  right  thing  for  Gilbert,  who  would  be  best 


Life  the  Accuser. 

kept  in  hand  by  having  a  limited  income  judiciously 
doled  out  to  him.  The  women,  of  course,  ought 
to  be  a  charge  on  the  Estate  —  dependants  upon 
the  future  Head  of  the  House.  Look  how  all  the 
big  families  manage  it !  I  am  myself  an  admirer 
of  entail.  Now  that  we  possess  'The  Court/  an 
entail  ought  to  have  been  arranged.  It  is  the 
proper  thing ;  no  family  can  be  founded  without 
it.  Then,  look  how  father  has  missed  it  with  Gil- 
bert !  It  is  just  his  crass  ignorance  about  what  is 
the  proper  thing.  The  younger  son,  of  course, 
ought  to  enter  a  profession.  All  the  big  families 
do  that.  He  ought  to  have  been  made  indepen- 
dent of  the  Estate,  and  the  burdens  of  the  Estate 
lessened  by  so  much.  Besides,  it's  the  aristo- 
cratic thing  to  do." 

Edward  sighed,  as  the  sense  of  wasted  oppor- 
tunity flowed  over  him. 

"  What  I  always  say  is,"  he  continued,  "  that 
there  's  only  a  step  between  us  and  the  top  of  the 
tree,  if  only  father  will  concentrate  on  the  main 
idea,  and  see  where  his  proper  duty  lies  !  " 

At  this  point  Edward  clenched  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  with  a  sudden  qualm.  Suppose  he  had 
not?  The  baffling  thing  was  that  circle  of  reti- 
cence and  resistance  in  his  father's  nature  which  he 
had  never  been  able  to  break  down.  Round  this 
shut  spot  his  brooding  thought  prowled,  incessantly 
curious,  anxious,  insatiate.  What  did  his  father, 
for  instance,  want  to  talk  so  much  with  Mr.  Dayn- 
90 


Hot  Summer. 

tree  for  just  now?  However,  Dayntree  was  a 
man  of  the  world,  and  he  had  confidence  that  he 
would  see  things  in  the  right  light. 

But  suppose  it  was  n't  two  hundred  thousand 
after  all,  but  only  one  ?  Did  they  live  in  the  style 
of  two  hundred  thousand  ?  One  hundred  thousand 
divided  by  five.  Good  Lord !  The  paltriness  of 
the  thing  was  enough  to  make  a  man  sick. 

A  sudden  consciousness  of  some  one's  presence 
directed  his  reflections  to  a  new  point,  without 
altering  the  quality  of  them.  His  sister  was  com- 
ing across  the  lawn  on  her  return  from  an  evening 
walk.  He  surveyed  her  from  beneath  his  eyelids, 
and  found  himself  fastidiously  critical  of  the  glow 
which  exercise  had  brought  to  her  cheek.  Then 
Eliza  sometimes  came  back  from  a  country  walk 
with  a  light  in  her  eyes  quite  beyond  her  brother's 
comprehension,  and  wholly  dissonant  from  his 
rfioods.  Anything  less  aristocratic,  less  in  the  style 
of  "  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,"  can  hardly  be 
imagined.  Edward  groaned  when  he  thought  of 
her  in  connection  with  "  Society.'* 

"  Your  face,"  said  he,  frowning,  "  is  as  red  as 
beet-root.  I  would  have  you  know  that  Mr.  Dixon 
and  Mr.  Dayntree  are  here.  I  do  wish  you  would 
contrive  to  behave  as  a  sister  of  mine  ought  to 
behave." 

The   dreams   which   had   lit   Eliza's    eyes    died 
instantaneously.     When    Edward   saw  the   look  of 
pain  and  indecision  rise  into  her  face,  he  turned  on 
91 


Life  the  Accuser. 

his  heel  with  a  scarcely  concealed  expression  of 
dislike.  Eliza  went  on  to  the  house,  feeling  in- 
describably hurt.  Upon  entering  she  caught  sight 
of  the  coachman  in  his  best  livery  hovering  in  the 
side  passage.  One  of  old  Mr.  Armstrong's  pre- 
judices lay  in  a  dogged  refusal  to  keep  a  butler. 
Mrs.  Armstrong,  urged  by  Edward,  would  silently 
introduce  the  coachman  when  distinguished  guests 
were  in  question.  His  presence  in  the  house  was 
therefore  to  Eliza  a  symptom  of  entertainment  and 
unmanageable  hours. 

By  this  time  she  was  precipitated  into  a  state  fatal 
to  herself  and  others,  and  before  she  reached  her 
room  signalised  it.  Down  the  passage  up  which 
she  advanced  her  aunt  approached.  Miss  Caroline 
Armstrong  was  a  woman  of  thirty-five,  with  a  grace- 
ful carriage  and  striking  features.  At  the  moment 
Eliza's  quick  eyes  detected  an  unusual  care  in  the 
toilette,  and  a  little  pleasant  excitement  in  the  face. 
Some  said  that  Mr.  Dixon  called  on  Miss  Arm- 
strong's account.  In  her  anxiety  to  make  no  fur- 
ther mistakes,  the  girl  paused  dead,  with  her  terrible 
wide-open  eyes  fixed  on  her  aunt's  unusual  elabora- 
tion of  dress. 

"  Aunt !  Ought  I  to  put  on  my  silk  dress  or  my 
delaine?" 

"  For  what  reason?"  was  the  reply,  accompanied 
by  a  sudden  stoniness  of  feature. 

It  increased  the  girl's  perplexity  and  drove  her 
on  to  fresh  indiscretions. 
92 


Hot  Summer. 

"  Edward  says  that  Mr.  Dixon  and  Mr.  Dayntree 
are  here,"  faltered  she. 

"  Eliza,"  was  the  severe  retort,  "  it  is  exceedingly 
vulgar  to  make  these  differences  on  account  of  mere 
callers.  Be  what  you  are. ' ' 

She  got  to  her  room.  The  details  of  life  were 
perplexing.  She  stared  out  of  her  window  with  the 
merest  meek  yearning  to  give  satisfaction  all  round 
to  everybody  and  an  entire  despair  of  attainment. 
And  at  this  moment,  in  the  hearts  of  both  brother 
and  aunt,  the  idea  of  her  personality  smarted  as 
something  almost  too  exasperating  to  be  borne. 

"  If  aunt  had  only  said  '  Your  silk,  Eliza,'  or 
'your  delaine,'  or  'your  muslin,' I  would  willingly 
put  on  anything  if  I  only  knew  which  to  choose." 

The  zone  of  colour  deepened  in  the  west ;  an 
evening  beauty  fell  on  common  and  uncommon 
things  alike.  Eliza  moved  to  the  window,  threw  it 
wider,  and  looked  out.  A  majesty  of  skies  lay  be- 
fore her ;  the  deep  glimpse  into  it  surprised  away 
the  momentary  fret,  and  set  her  again  into  relation 
with  that  wider  existence  which  pressed  upon  her 
with  so  strong  a  sense  of  reality  in  solitary  hours. 
She  began  to  dress  carefully,  unconsciously,  and  all 
too  slowly.  Thoughts  prevented  her  from  marking 
the  flight  of  time.  When  she  came  to  herself  it 
was  late ;  a  buzz  of  talk  and  laughter  in  the  hall 
recalled  her ;  the  glow  vanished  in  face  of  a  prosaic 
disaster — in  the  realisation  that  she  had  missed  a 
valuable  opportunity. 

93 


Life  the  Accuser. 

For  next  to  Constantia  and  Irene,  Mr.  Dayntree 
held  the  high  place  in  Eliza's  estimation.  In  some 
respects  he  stood  highest  of  all.  She  adored  him 
afar  off  as  the  single  embodiment  of  manly  culture 
with  which  she  was  acquainted.  His  mind  was  the 
only  one  she  knew  that  brought  her  into  touch  with 
the  world  of  men  and  things.  His  fascination  lay 
in  this  —  he  seemed  to  carry  the  world  with  him,  to 
have  its  heart  beating  under  his  waistcoat ;  proces- 
sions of  actual  beings,  facts  and  experiences,  passed 
in  and  about  his  conversation,  producing  a  sense  of 
stir  and  actuality  that  nothing  in  her  own  life  ever 
brought  her. 

Realising  that  she  was  losing  his  visit,  she  ran 
hurriedly  downstairs.  A  lively  group  rilled  the 
hall.  Her  step-mother,  effusive  and  gracious,  was 
bidding  adieu  to  Mr.  Dayntree ;  her  sister  Sylvia, 
as  sweet  and  easy  as  a  bud  in  June,  and  in  simple 
muslin,  had  let  fall  one  of  her  bright  speeches ; 
Norman  himself,  bearded,  handsome,  with  his  forty 
years  of  mastered  realities,  was  smiling  because  of  it. 
Aunt  Caroline,  restored  to  composure,  her  cheek 
beautified  by  a  slight  flush,  stood  near;  Edward 
stood  near,  and  Gilbert  hung  behind  with  a  smile 
of  good-natured  participation  on  his  face.  From 
the  drawing-room  door  her  father  looked  on.  Eliza 
noticed  that  he  leaned  against  the  doorway,  that  his 
face  was  grey,  and  that  it  was  pushed  forward  with 
a  certain  dogged  obstinacy  in  the  jaw,  a  startling 
depth  of  expression  in  the  eyes.  By  his  side  was 
94 


Hot  Summer. 

Mr.  Dixon  —  obviously  remaining  for  the  evening. 
Mr.  Dixon,  who  was  nothing  whatever  in  Eliza's 
eyes  !  But  it  is  always  this  —  the  gods  feave,  the 
ordinary  person  lingers. 

Eliza  hovered  for  one  moment  on  the  last  step  of 
the  stair,  and  then  advanced.  It  seemed  so  sweet 
a  picture.  The  poems  which  slumbered  in  her 
heart  were  apt  to  be  thrown  out  as  an  atmosphere 
for  the  commonest  incidents,  the  stature  of  men 
and  women  being  magnified  thereby;  and  those 
who  made  up  the  group  and  could  be  easy  one  with 
another,  beautiful  in  demeanour  and  gracious  in 
speech,  shone  to  her  eyes  as  visionary  beings. 
Never  was  onlooking  heart  less  tainted  with  sus- 
picion or  more  wistful  of  participation.  She  ad- 
vanced, and  extended  a  small  white  hand  towards 
Mr.  Dayntree.  The  latter,  naturally  startled  by  this 
salutation  at  a  parting  moment,  broke  off  his  speech, 
took  the  hand,  and  bowed  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
The  merry  group  seemed  to  fall  to  pieces  in  pres- 
ence of  this  bit  of  isolation  ;  Mr.  Dayntree  stepped 
towards  the  door,  and  all  that  was  harmonious  went 
with  him. 

"  Gawk ! "  whispered  brother  Gerald,  as  one 
after  another  dispersed. 

The  darkness  which  was  gathering  in  the  sky  set- 
tled also  on  Eliza's  heart.  She  heard  them  collect 
in  the  drawing-room,  and,  from  the  sounds  which 
came  from  the  closed  door,  knew  that  the  mirth  of 
the  evening  was  resumed  for  Mr.  Dixon's  benefit 
95 


Life  the  Accuser. 

The  entertainment  of  Mr.  Dixon,  however,  was  not 
very  attractive,  and  turning  to  the  front  door  she 
stood  watching  the  deepening  shadows  and  waiting 
for  the  stars. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed. 

Then  Gilbert  came  out  of  the  drawing-room,  and 
paused  to  look  at  her  with  a  curious  smile.  He  set 
his  chin  up  in  boyish  imitation  of  her  attitude. 

"Well,  Miss  Johnny-head-in-air!"  cried  he; 
"star-gazing?  They  are  laughing  at  you  in  the 
drawing-room  —  how  you  go  about  staring  up  into 
the  sky  and  seeing  nothing." 

"  I  see  everything"  heavily  retorted  Eliza,  yet  with 
a  truth  to  which  her  less  gifted  brother  had  no  clue. 

"  Oh,  do  you  ?     Dixon  calls  you  '  La  Penserosa.' " 

"  She  saw  everything." 

Gilbert,  not  very  clear  as  to  the  meaning  of  the 
phrase,  but  wishing  to  assert  his  superiority  in  age 
and  sex,  seized  another  weapon. 

"  They  say  you  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Dayntree 
like  a  pump-handle,"  said  he. 

Eliza  stared  at  him  silently.  A  sense  of  outrage 
cut  her  heart  like  a  scarlet  thread. 

"Elizer— •  !  'm "  continued  Gilbert,  not  ill- 
naturedly. 

But  she  turned  her  shoulders  on  him,  and  did 
not  wait  for  the  rest.  Her  name,  always  a  griev- 
ance, thus  pronounced  became  an  insult.  She  fled 
upstairs  and  took  refuge  in  her  bedroom  and  a 
locked  door. 


Hot  Summer. 

The  rest  of  the  house  went  on  its  way.  In  the 
kitchen  the  evening  coffee  was  being  brewed,  and 
the  best  china  cups  were  spread  out  for  use.  The 
old  housekeeper  bent  over  the  fire ;  the  waitress 
prepared  a  silver  basket  with  dainty  cakes  ;  and  the 
coachman,  in  his  best  clothes  —  the  fictional  ele- 
ment which  Edward  was  so  fond  of  introducing  into 
his  surroundings  —  prepared  to  enhance  the  family 
dignity  by  himself  bearing  in  the  tray. 

"You  know  Dayntree  well?"  said  Mr.  Armstrong 
in  the  drawing-room,  addressing  himself  to  Mr. 
Dixon. 

He  stood  on  the  hearthrug  with  an  air  which 
Edward  found  too  commercial.  He  was  still  grave 
and  thoughtful.  His  head  pushed  forward  in  the 
particular  attitude  Eliza  had  noticed,  showed  as 
something  rugged,  forceful,  and  a  little  grim. 

"  Oh  dear  !  Papa  is  in  one  of  his  moods,"  thought 
Mrs.  Armstrong. 

"  Yes/'  returned  Mr.  Dixon ;  "  I  may  say  that, 
I  suppose,  seeing  our  acquaintance  dates  from 
Oxford.  Dayntree  has  not  fulfilled  his  early  prom- 
ise, you  know." 

Mr.'  Armstrong  turned  his  head  sharply. 

"  He  made  a  figure  at  the  Union  debates  in  un- 
dergraduate days.  It  was  thought  his  career  would 
be  political,  and  that  he  would  probably  take  office." 

Miss  Armstrong  was  of  opinion  that  office  de- 
manded more  solidity  of  character.  Mr.  Dixon 
smiled. 

7  97 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"He  showed  his  solidity  of  character  to  some 
purpose  when  he  threw  himself  into  a  commercial 
career,"  said  Mr.  Armstrong,  speaking  with  marked 
decision ;  "  his  education  was  n't  a  mere  bit  of  em- 
broidery. He  has  built  up  a  splendid  fortune." 

"  Oh  !  There  's  no  doubt  he  is  a  fine  manipula- 
tor of  money  affairs,"  assented  Mr.  Dixon. 

"The  man  is  a  born  financier,"  said  Mr.  Arm- 
strong, lifting  his  head  suddenly,  as  does  one  who 
knows  what  he  is  saying. 

"  Well !  That  7s  a  very  main  thing  in  business 
matters,  of  course." 

"  He  has  the  whole  thing  in  his  finger-tips  — 
runs  at  the  market  like  a  dog  with  his  nose  to  the 
ground,"  said  Mr.  Armstrong. 

"Are  we  .to  judge  everything  by  pecuniary  re- 
sults ?  "  murmured  Mrs.  Armstrong,  in  her  elevated 
manner. 

Edward  frowned  uneasily  at  his  father's  metaphor, 
and  disliked  the  turn  the  conversation  had  taken. 
Whiffs  from  the  mill,  the  counting-house,  the  town- 
ofrlce,  pervaded  the  conversational  air.  "A  dog 
with  his  nose  to  the  ground."  How  Lancashire 
and  uncultivated !  Who  but  a  cotton-operative 
would  say  such  a  thing  !  He  sauntered  across  the 
room  —  Oxford  veneered  on  his  manner  —  and 
leaned  against  the  corner  of  the  mantel-shelf. 

"1  wonder  the  University  didn't  wash  all  that 
sort  of  thing  out  of  him,"  said  he,  shortly  ;  "  a  man 
ought  to  adopt  the  higher  ambition." 


Hot  Summer. 

Aunt  Caroline  softly  struck  her  hands  together  in 
applause. 

"  What  I  long  to  see,"  said  Mrs.  Armstrong,  "  is 
both  commerce  and  politics  brought  under  really 
Christian  principles." 

"  What  does  Miss  Armstrong  say  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Dixon. 

Miss  Armstrong  turned  her  interesting  face  — 
the  long  thin  nose  with  a  ripple  in  it,  the  bitingly 
thin  lips  and  the  fine  hatchet  jaw. 

"  That  the  country  carries  on  some  of  its  com- 
mercial enterprises  under  the  Christian  flag  with 
great  advantage  to  its  own  pocket,"  said  she. 

Mr.  Armstrong's  head  had  fallen  forward  again, 
and  he  appeared  to  have  lost  interest  in  the 
conversation. 

It  was  a  curious  anomaly  in  the  Armstrong  house- 
hold that  Aunt  Caroline  was  permitted  thus  to  take 
her  enjoyment  in  the  utterance  of  paradox.  Mrs. 
Armstrong,  however,  explained  her  sister's  unortho- 
dox speeches  to  her  own  mind  as  eccentric  mani- 
festations of  the  Armstrong  cleverness,  and  in  her 
pride  of  family  upheld  her.  As  to  herself,  her  chief 
characteristics  were  a  weak  low  voice  that  suggested 
fatigue  and  a  coldly  balanced  demeanour.  She  af- 
fected also  a  rigid  austerity,  which  manifested  itself  in 
excessively  early  rising,  and  in  a  neglect  of  the  dain- 
ties of  the  table.  These  traits  were  supposed  to 
signalise  particular  strength  of  character,  and  they 
certainly  afforded  a  basis  from  which  to  harry  the 
99 


Life  the  Accuser. 

family  with  a  sense  of  shortcoming.  Mrs.  Arm- 
strong's superiority  and  Aunt  Caroline's  cleverness 
produced  together  a  subtle  network  of  thin  but  highly 
effective  tyranny,  under  which  the  soul  of  Eliza 
groaned  and  perished. 

"Caroline!  Are  you  not  too  radical?  Gilbert 
is  present,"  murmured  Mrs.  Armstrong. 

"  Original!"  supplied  Mr.  Dixon,  with  a  bow. 

"  When  you  come  to  originality,"  remarked 
Gilbert,  with  cheerful  irrelevancy,  "  commend  me 
to  Mrs.  Dayntree's  sister.  She  's  a  oner  !  " 

"You  allude  to  Miss  Severne?"  asked  Miss 
Armstrong.  "  A  delicate-looking  woman.  A  '  rare 
pale  Margaret '  sort  of  creature.  Gilbert,  do  avoid 
slang  !  " 

"  Ah !  "  said  Mr.  Armstrong,  suddenly ;  "  a 
woman  with  a  dry  tongue." 

Miss  Armstrong  had  risen  and  was  approaching 
the  piano.  Mr.  Dixon  followed  her  with  his  eyes. 

"  This  is  delightful,"  said  he. 

Aunt  Caroline  opened  the  piano  and  glanced 
round  on  the  rest. 

"  Edward,  are  you  in  voice  ?  "  said  she  ;  "  we 
might  try  a  part  song.  Come  and  sing  the 
second,  Isabella.  Now  Sylvia  and  Gilbert !  I  will 
accompany." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  protested  on   her  own   behalf, 

but,    her   objections   being  overcome,   the    family 

gathered  round  the  piano.     After  some  debate  and 

delay  a  part  song  was  selected.     The  four  stood 

100 


Hot  Summer. 

behind  Aunt  Caroline.  Sylvia  led  with  her  clear 
soprano ;  Mrs.  Armstrong  standing  by  her  side, 
tall  and  very  upright,  moving  a  long  hand  gently 
and  monotonously  in  time,  contributed  with  visible 
effort  a  sweet  musical  second ;  Edward  gave  a  harsh 
tenor  under  a  frowning  brow  ;  and  Gilbert  in  boyish 
style  the  bass ;  Miss  Armstrong  seated  at  the  piano 
kept  them  firmly  together,  and  showed  Mr.  Dixon 
a  graceful  profile  with  a  brow  indicative  of  rather 
shallow  intellectual  furnishing.  Mr.  Armstrong 
extended  himself  upon  an  armchair,  and  fell  into 
immovable  silence.  Mr.  Dixon,  eyeing  Miss  Arm- 
strong, was  troubled  by  a  vision  of  Miss  Severne 
flitting  across  his  mind  —  of  Miss  Severne  with  her 
gentle  eyes  and  dry  tongue.  He  followed  the 
vision  by  a  sigh. 

Outside  stood  the  coachman  and  the  waitress 
with  trays  in  their  hands,  both  in  perspiring  un- 
certainty whether  to  break  in  on  the  melody  or  to 
wait.  The  melody  ended.  It  was  followed  by 
the  tuning  of  a  violin. 

"  Bide  for  the  Lord's  love,  James  !  That's  Mr. 
Edward  on  now,"  whispered  the  waitress  in  agony. 

A  long-drawn  cry  from  the  fiddle,  and  an  un- 
distinguishable  welling  of  pianoforte  notes  reached 
the  untutored  ears. 

"  I  tell  you  it 's  tuning  up  they  're  at.  In  with 
you,  Mary  !  " 

The  door  burst  open,  and  the  small  procession 
entered  with  tramp  and  rattle.  Edward,  his  arm 
101 


Life  the  Accuser. 

suspended  on  the  second  note  of  Gounod's  Melody, 
dropped  his  bow  and  turned  to  his  step-mother. 

"  I  never  yet/'  said  he,  with  subdued  savagery, 
"  began  to  play  anything  on  my  violin  in  this  house, 
but  that  somebody  instantly  put  on  coals,  or  the 
servants  burst  in  with  coffee." 


102 


Hot  Summer. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  long-drawn  scream  of  Edward's  violin  stole 
from  the  drawing-room  to  Eliza,  who  was  still  lean- 
ing out  of  her  bedroom  window ;  she  caught  her 
hands  to  her  ears;  but  the  uneasiness  could  only 
be  avoided  by  escaping  into  the  open  air.  Eliza 
resolved  to  pay  an  evening  call  on  Rosalie  Trelyon. 
It  was  beautiful  and  quiet  outside,  all  the  summer 
had  been  wonderful  —  days  of  sunshine  linked  to 
nights  of  breathless  calm.  A  star  or  two,  poeti- 
cally irrelevant  and  exquisite,  hung  in  the  sky.  It 
was  the  fancy  of  her  bewildered  but  delicate  soul 
to  believe  that  from  their  omen-lit  edges  remote 
relationships  escaped.  The  page  of  life,  as  learned 
in  home  experience,  was  a  hunting  of  angry  shad- 
ows round  a  barren  circle,  the  life  which  dropped 
from  the  cool  fingers  of  nature  had  more  of  actual- 
ity and  substance,  but  so  far  it  was  an  existence 
suspended  imminent  behind  a  cloud,  and  needing 
an  energising  force  to  bring  it  within  vision.  To- 
night this  vibration  upon  her  sensibility  affected 
her  as  a  sharp  tease  of  presentiment;  she  stood 
quite  still,  looking  up,  and  feeling  as  a  ball  poised 
103 


Life  the  Accuser. 

in  the  hand  of  a  great  thrower,  and  ready  for  the 
pitch  over  barriers  into  the  undiscovered  beyond. 

The  estates  of  "The  Court"  and  of  "South 
Downs  "  ran  undulating  edges  one  into  another ; 
and  the  feet  of  the  two  girl-friends,  in  frequent  visi- 
tations, had  beaten  a  path  across  a  field  flanked  by 
a  plantation,  which  led  into  the  upper  fruit-garden 
of  the  Trelyons.  The  garden  was  on  higher  ground 
than  the  house,  and  was  linked  to  it  by  the  covered 
stone  bridge  and  glass  doors  which  led  straight  on 
to  the  passage  in  which  the  rooms  of  Rosalie  were 
situated.  The  fruit-garden  was  quiet  and  retired  — 
a  picturesque  place,  broadly  cut  into  four  parts 
by  two  main  paths  intersecting  each  other  in  the 
centre ;  here  they  were  linked  by  a  creeper-covered 
arbour  constructed  with  four  arched  openings,  hav- 
ing as  many  corner  seats.  Eliza  had  made  it  a 
habit  to  reach  the  house  from  the  top  of  the  path 
that  led  through  the  rustic  arches  straight  on  to  the 
bridge.  A  visit  by  night  was  of  course  uncommon, 
yet  she  ventured  it  without  hesitation,  having  so  far 
never  found  her  presence  unwelcomed  by  Rosalie, 
The  prearranged  three  taps  on  the  inner  glass  door 
—  recognised  and  allowed  by  "  Glynn "  and  the 
servants  —  had  scarcely  ever  failed  to  draw  to  the 
entrance  the  face  of  her  friend  with  welcome  in  her 
eyes.  And  if  by  day-time  why  not  by  night  ?  The 
fair-haired  dreamer,  softly  unopening  the  small  wicket 
from  the  plantation  to  the  garden,  knew  of  no  reason 
to  the  contrary ;  nor  was  it  within  her  philosophy 
104 


Hot  Summer. 

to  surmise  that  any  save  herself  should  ever  use  her 
own  preconcerted  signal ;  nor  that  the  innocence  of 
her  hand-beat  upon  the  glass  might  become  a  little 
sterile  to  an  ear  expectant  of  the  thrills  of  life,  and 
ready  for  new  sensations.  She  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  round  and  breathing  the  pungent  cleanly 
smell  of  fruit  and  herbs,  her  mind  no  less  than  before 
overshadowed  by  its  specially  spiritual  atmosphere. 
Eliza  was  so  peculiarly  the  pilgrim  of  hidden  expe- 
rience that  any  sudden  evidence  of  discreditable 
affairs  was  bound  to  shock  and  overthrow. 

Standing  thus  wrapped  in  her  habitual  mood  on 
the  brink  of  this  night  of  events,  the  first  thing  that 
startled  her  was  a  sense  of  the  unusual  near  at  hand. 
By  choice  she  had  taken  the  broad  grassy  edge  of 
the  beds,  the  silence  being  too  precious  to  be  broken. 
It  was  this  stillness  of  her  own  which  enabled  her 
to  catch  the  sound  of  steps  elsewhere ;  the  garden 
was,  she  discovered,  already  disturbed  by  sauntering 
footfalls.  They  came  from  the  far  end  of  the  inter- 
secting path,  and  while  she  was  approaching  the 
arches  from  the  top,  they  made  for  the  same  spot 
from  the  right.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  desist 
from  her  own  progress ;  this  garden  and  the  bridge 
were  Rosalie's  and  hers  by  consecrated  right ;  if 
others  intruded  she  had  but  to  slip  into  or  behind 
the  arbour,  wait  until  they  passed,  and  dart  on 
to  the  glass  doors  to  give  her  habitual  signal.  Down 
the  grassy  edge  the  girl  passed  on  unheedingly, 
every  trick  of  habit  and  the  just  innocence  of  her 


Life  the  Accuser. 

heart  leading  her,  and  having  in  her  own  nature 
nothing  that  could  turn  her  back.  In  spite  of  this 
Eliza's  instinct  —  keen  as  any  one's  —  dwelt  on  the 
sound  of  the  steps  and  read  into  them  certain  indi- 
cations. They  were  quiet  and  leisurely  as  of  per- 
sons choosing  to  be  alone ;  they  told  of  snatched 
interviews,  precious  because  rare  —  or  dangerous  ; 
they  carried  adventure  and  secrecy  with  them. 
The  wrong  step  in  the  wrong  place  —  that  is  eerie 
to  the  consciousness  and  brings  the  heart  into  the 
mouth  and  pricks  up  the  ear.  Something,  she  knew 
not  what,  trembled  through  her  blood.  By  and  by 
came  other  indications  ;  there  was  a  murmur  of  low 
voices,  rippling  laughs  soft  and  with  the  indefinite 
quality  of  close  and  intoxicated  enjoyment;  the 
interchange  of  sound,  too,  was  masculine  and  femi- 
nine —  a  vocal  duet  learned  so  long  ago  in  Paradise 
that  it  is  recognisable  to  the  most  unpractised. 
Eliza  jumped  to  the  inevitable  conclusion.  A 
moment  afterwards  instinct  lost  that  inference  in 
reason.  As  the  sounds  approached,  hooded  in  cau- 
tion, she  distinguished  the  quality  of  at  least  one 
tone,  and  that  was  Rosalie's.  Now  Rosalie  had  no 
accepted  lover.  Rosalie's  affairs  were  plain,  she 
believed,  to  her  reading  as  the  lines  on  her  own 
palm ;  Rosalie  she  knew  to  be  Tieart-free.  There 
was  no  masculine  intimacy  forbidding  her  intrusion ; 
why  then  draw  back  ?  and  yet  arrived  as  she  now 
was  close  to  the  arbour  her  instincts  were  so  loud  in 
wavering  that  she  drew  her  skirts  together  and 
106 


Hot  Summer. 

shrank  behind  an  arch  preparatory  to  flying  back 
undetected  on  the  way  she  came.  The  moment 
afterwards  her  capacity  of  coherent  thinking  was 
broken  by  a  crushing  surprise.  The  advancing 
pair  were  close  upon  her,  they  entered  the  arbour ; 
for  a  moment  the  rays  from  the  lighted  bridge 
touched  them.  Eliza  hardly  controlled  her  cry  of 
astonishment. 

That  was  Rosalie,  sure  enough.  The  inexplicable 
thing  was  the  identity  of  the  person  accompanying 
her. 

Hardly  conscious  of  what  she  was  doing,  she 
walked  forward  and  seated  herself  on  one  of  the 
corner  seats  without  any  attempt  at  concealment ; 
the  red  light  from  the  bridge  crept  up  her  muslin 
skirt.  There  was  of  course,  she  argued,  no  neces- 
sity to  retreat.  Instinct  was  now  almost  obliterated 
by  reason.  The  pale  eyebrows  contracted  with  a 
slight  frown,  and  the  features  delicately  chiselled 
out  against  the  darkness  became  severely  thought- 
ful. She  could  bring  nothing  to  bear  on  the  event 
but  a  girl's  untarnished  philosophy,  and  could  do 
nothing  but  lend  it  the  protection  of  her  innocence. 
Rosalie  was  her  own  familiar  friend ;  there  were 
certain  laws  which  one  never  dreamed  of  transgress- 
ing—  thus  she  picked  up  the  threads  of  thought 
possible  to  her  —  obviously  the  presence  of  a  third 
person  in  an  interview  where  the  parties  were  pro- 
saically distanced  by  fate  and  time,  could  not  be  an 
intrusion.  She  sat  quite  still  with  her  small  hands 
107 


Life  the  Accuser. 

loose  on  her  knee  and  waited  ;  she  could  conceive 
no  reason  why  she  should  not  do  so. 

And  yet  instinct  kept  alive  in  her  breast  as  a 
thumping  heart.  The  odd  sensation  was  not  at  all 
of  the  nature  of  thought.  It  was  one  of  those 
impressions  which  wait  months,  even  years,  before 
they  clothe  themselves  with  so  much  substance  as 
is  comprehended  in  an  expressible  idea.  When 
the  dim  prophecy  is  fulfilled  they  return  on  the 
mind  with  incredible  vividness,  forcing  from  the 
tongue  the  cry,  "  I  said  so  ! "  when  what  we  mean 
is  that  so  we  felt. 

Back  the  pair  came  on  the  return  journey,  saun- 
tering and  talking;  they  were  near  enough  for  her 
to  hear  what  was  said. 

"  Law,  then,  has  no  meaning  to  you  unless  based 
on  what  is  natural  ?  " 

"  None  whatever.  Need  and  nature  —  those  are 
my  criterions." 

"  It  is  a  masculine  idea  —  a  man's  standard." 

'•'  And  must  become  a  woman's  too.  It  is  mine. 
I  own  no  other." 

["Rosalie I  n] 

The  voice  leapt  from  the  centre  of  the  arbour, 
and  a  lightly  robed  figure  rose  before  them.  After 
it  there  slowly  blossomed  from  the'  darkness  the 
face  of  Eliza,  its  wide-open  steadiness  of  gaze  and 
innocence  of  contour  throwing  out  in  the  uncertain 
light  an  impress  of  severity.  It  was  doubt  on  the 
one  side,  alarmed  fancy  on  the  other,  that  thus 
1 08 


Hot  Summer. 

sketched  into  the  girl's  features  an  attribute  of  the 
kind.  On  her  part  the  grating  of  startled  feet  on 
the  gravel  after  the  soft  footfalls  struck  on  her  ear 
as  with  a  lifetime  of  consequence  ;  and  after  it  utter 
silence  fell.  She  held  the  pair  in  her  unwinking 
gaze,  marvelling  to  see  in  either  face  anger  chasing 
dismay.  That  was  erased  from  the  masculine  eyes 
by  a  steely  dislike  that  cut  like  a  knife  ;  then,  with 
hastily  lifted  hat,  he  —  the  intruder  —  turned  and 
walked  away.  The  two  girls  were  left  face  to 
face. 

"Rosalie!"  repeated  Eliza,  astonished  at  this 
quiver  of  emotion,  in  a  moment  prejudged  by  her 
as  commonplace. 

The  heart  in  the  breast  of  the  beautiful  Rosalie 
stirred  curiously.  She  blinked  her  eyes  once  or 
twice,  and  Eliza  shivered.  For  Rosalie's  face  held 
a  cold  immovable  anger  not  to  be  borne ;  Eliza's 
intellectual  capacity  seemed  to  shut  up  under  it. 
In  her  helpless  pain  she  put  out  her  hand  and 
touched  her  friend  and  cried  her  name  again. 

Rosalie  turned  away  impatiently  and  stood  in 
th£  dark,  her  shoulder  averted. 

"Why  do  you  come  stealing  on  me  like  this  — 
and.  spying?"  she  asked,  in  a  voice  of  the  same 
cold  immovable  anger. 

"  /spy  on  you  !  I  just  came.  What  is  —  is  — 
the  matter?" 

Rosalie  pushed  into   the   arbour,  and  sat  down 
suddenly.     Eliza  stood  where   she  was,  the   most 
109 


Life  the  Accuser. 

perplexed  creature  between  the  heavens  and  the 
earth. 

"  You  born  fool !  "  said  Rosalie. 

"  Rosalie—  don't!" 

Rosalie  sat  silent,  but  the  wild  thumping  of  her 
pulses  in  that  insane  access  of  anger  was  getting 
stilled. 

"  Why,"  asked  Eliza,  "  does  he  look  at  me  as 
though  I  were  hateful?  what  does  it  all  mean?  " 

"  What  are  you  here  for  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  have  heard  you  talk !  "  was 
the  irrelevant  reply. 

"  You  are  a  baby.  How  did  you  know  he  was 
here?'7 

"  I  saw  him." 

"Saw  him  I     Where?" 

"  From  the  path  behind  this  arch.  I  meant  to 
go  back  at  first.  But  seeing  who  it  was,  of  course 
I  stayed.  And  why  not?" 

Rosalie  threw  her  head  back  and  suddenly 
laughed. 

"Goose!  Goose!  GOOSE!"  said  she.  "What 
on  earth  were  you  doing  on  the  path  behind  the 
arbour  ?  " 

"  I  was  coming  to  see  you." 

"  Come  at  a  less  crazy  hour,  then.  Where 's 
your  maid,  your  chaperon  ?  Good  gracious,  Eliza  ! 
We  're  both  lost  women  !  Glynn  's  in  her  bedroom 
with  her  nose  greased  and  her  toes  in  hot  water 
and  a  basin  of  callidum  cum  by  her  side.  She  has 
no 


Hot  Summer. 

a  bad  cold,  and  I  saw  her  safely  locked  up  for  the 
night.  Then  was  the  hour  for  sport,  and  we're 
both,  you  and  I,  found  —  out  without  our  chape- 
rons. The  fat's  in  the  fire." 

"  Oh,  Rosalie  ! "  said  Eliza,  forlornly,  and  in  a 
tone  singularly  flat  after  the  other's  crisp  sentences, 
"  I  don't  have  a  maid  or  a  chaperon.  I'm  no 
beauty.  Nobody  takes  that  much  trouble  over 
me.'7 

"  Happy  mortal !  Well !  skurry  home  now.  I  'm 
dead  tired.  Good-night." 

The  tall  beautiful  girl  rose  from  her  seat,  and, 
leaning  down  to  the  drooping  face  of  Eliza,  kissed 
her  cheek.  Eliza  turned  away  giddily.  Her  brain 
was  benumbed,  and  was  an  absolute  blank  from 
anything  like  comprehension  of  the  occurrence. 
She  left  the  arbour  and  stepped  up  the  path.  Then 
she  heard  Rosalie  call  her  again.  Turning  back, 
she  caught  sight  of  her  face  against  the  black  curve 
of  an  arch,  wonderful  with  beauty  in  the  dim  light, 
the  mouth  hungry  and  wistful  for  life,  the  eyes 
gleaming  and  tantalising. 

"  Eliza  ! " 

"  Oh,  yes !  " 

"  It  was  a  dull  talk  you  interrupted  —  mere 
politics." 

"  Was  it  ?  "  said  Eliza,  without  interest. 

"  And  you  shook  the  last  phrase  out  of  my  head." 

"  Oh  —  something  about  law.     Does   it  matter? 
Not  very  interesting,  I  think." 
in 


Life  the  Accuser. 

The  eyes  held  her  with  their  smile,  and  drew  her 
in  a  net  of  influence. 

"No,  not  very.  I  recall.  We  won't  talk  of 
our  little  escapade  —  yours  and  mine  —  to  Glynn 
or  Aunt  Caroline,  shall  we  ?  " 

"Oh,  no!  Why  should  I  talk  of  it?  There's 
nothing  to  say." 

"Nothing  at  all." 

The  voice  was  lucid  and  emphatic. 


112 


Hot  Summer. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

BREAKFAST  was  spread  in  the  dining-room  of 
"  The  Court."  It  was  a  sunny  morning  and  the 
French  windows  were  thrown  open.  Over  one  of 
the  lawns  a  little  procession  of  two  gardeners  and  a 
mowing-machine  passed  up  and  down,  and  the  drowsy 
sound  came  in  with  the  scent  of  freshly  mown  hay. 

Aunt  Caroline  stood  at  the  window;  she  had 
been  reading  Walt  Whitman's  poems — they  were 
quite  in  fashion  for  the  moment ;  half  the  readers 
sternly  disapproved,  and  the  other  half  became 
wildly  emancipated  under  them.  Aunt  Caroline 
was  looking  out  on  a  world  tinctured  newly  by 
Whitman  moods  and  Swinburnian  expressions. 

The  whistle  of  a  far-off  engine  was  coincident  in 
her  ear  with  the  opening  of  the  door  to  admit  her 
elder  niece.  Miss  Armstrong,  whose  attitude  played 
the  listener,  raised  her  hand  and  beckoned.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  heard  but  the  mowing-machine 
and  a  distant  train.  Eliza,  her  eyes  still  dimmed 
by  last  night's  weeping,  approached.  She  had  a 
conviction  that  her  aunt  was  going  to  be  too  clever 
for  her,  and  that  she  should  miss  her  meaning. 
8  113 


Life  the  Accuser. 

But  Miss  Armstrong  was  too  much  occupied  to 
care  who  was  her  auditor  or  what  was  the  fashion. 
The  whistle  sounded  again. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  she,  softly,  "  the  sound  of  the  whistle 
of  an  engine  and  the  whirl  of  wheels  through  the 
dimness  of  a  distance." 

"  I  used  to  like  it  when  I  was  a  chitcl,"  began 
Eliza,  quite  eagerly.  "  Don't  you  remember  that 
puff  of  white  steam  that  curled  along  the  plain  in 
our  old  home  every  morning,  in  and  out  amongst 
the  trees?  I  knew  the  time,  and  I  used  to  run  to 
the  nursery  window  with  Sylvie  every  day." 

Aunt  Caroline  turned  away  rather  impatiently. 
She  had  never  noticed  a  train  in  her  life  before,  and 
found  the  stale  reminiscence  tiresome. 

At  the  moment  Mrs.  Armstrong,  for  whom  the 
day  was  already  old,  entered.  With  a  glance  at  the 
clock  and  her  hand  on  the  bell,  she  surrendered  her 
cheek  to  the  morning  salutation,  and  summoned  the 
servants  to  prayers.  Sylvia  and  the  boys  straggled 
in,  and  Mrs.  Armstrong  herself  sat  down  to  read  the 
psalm. 

"Where  's  father?"  whispered  Gilbert,  thrusting 
his  curly  head  and  uncouth  face,  as  yet  so  unre- 
deemed from  barbarism,  close  to  Eliza. 

Eliza  shook  her  red  mop  expressively. 

Between  prayers  and  breakfast  was  a  short  in- 
terval.    Aunt  Caroline  moved  softly  about  with  her 
air  of  intellectual  aloofness.    Sylvia  had  disappeared 
at  a  sign  from  her  step-mother.     Gilbert,  with  his 
114 


Hot  Summer. 

hands  in  his  pockets,  whistled  a  tune,  and  Edward 
paid  some  attention  to  his  nails. 

"  Edward,"  said  Mrs.  Armstrong,  suddenly,  from 
the  breakfast-table,  where  she  stood  rather  absently 
rearranging  the  cups,  "  your  father  is  very  strange 
this  morning." 

Everybody  looked  towards  her ;  Edward  left  off 
polishing  his  nails,  and.  the  spell  of  silence  being 
broken,  the  family  gathered  round  the  table. 

"  Is  n't  he  coming  down  ?  "  asked  Edward,  when 
the  maid  had  closed  the  door. 

"  No.  I  have  sent  his  breakfast  upstairs  by  Syl- 
via. He  is  very  strange.  I  believe  Gilbert  had 
better  take  the  dog-cart  and  drive  over  for  the 
doctor." 

"Then  he  is  ill?" 

"  He  insists  that  I  shall  invite  old  Mr.  John  Arm- 
strong to  stay  with  us.  I  have  been  combating  the 
idea  for  days.'7 

Mrs.  Armstrong  made  a  plaintive  gesture  with 
her  hands,  and  gently  shook  her  head.  Everybody 
looked  at  everybody.  Edward  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  pushing  his  plate  away. 

"  Of  course  that 's  impossible,  mother,"  said  he  ; 
"  yes,  Gilbert  had  better  go  for  the  doctor." 

"  Why  is  it  impossible  for  old  Mr.  John  Arm- 
strong to  come  and  stay  with  us?"  asked  Eliza. 

"  Eliza !  Do,  for  goodness'  sake,  not  be  an 
idiot !  " 

It  was  almost  a  chorus. 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Isabella,"  said  Aunt  Caroline,  in  a  low,  re- 
proachful tone  ;  "  surely  you  can  manage  him  !  " 

"  I  cannot.  I  am  at  a  loss,  and  wash  my  hands 
of  it.  I  repeat  that  he  insists  that  old  Mr.  John 
Armstrong  shall  come  and  stay  at  '  The  Court.' " 

Mrs.  Armstrong's  tones  were,  as  ever,  very  soft 
and  measured. 

"Why  did  not  you  appeal  to  me  before, 
mother  ? "  said  Edward,  irritably.  "  Father  must 
be  off  his  head." 

"  Will  you  try  your  influence  with  him  now,  then  ? 
I  am  at  an  end  of  mine." 

"  I  will  reason  with  him,  certainly.  I  '11  go  up  to 
his  room  after  breakfast.  Of  course  we  can't  let 
him  wreck  us  by  this  ridiculous  whim." 

"  Old  Mr.  John  Armstrong!  "  murmured  Aunt 
Caroline,  very  expressively  and  with  a  complete 
erasure  of  the  democratic  vistas  of  Whitman. 

At  the  moment  Sylvia  returned  to  the  dining- 
room. 

"  You  have  been  very  long,"  said  Mrs.  Armstrong, 
with  enough  severity  to  arrest  the  girl  on  the  thresh- 
old. "  Did  father  say  anything  ?  " 

"  He  sent  me  with  a  message  first.  And  then  he 
told  me  to  come  back  and  pour  out  the  tea." 

Leaning  against  the  door  in  her  fresh  morning 
muslin,  Sylvia  turned  her  blue  eyes  first  to  one  face, 
then  to  another. 

"  A  message  !  " 

"A  telegram,"  said  Sylvia.  "He  had  one  writ- 
116 


Hot  Summer. 

ten  ready,  and  he  sent  me  round  to  the  stable  with 
directions  that  it  was  to  be  sent  off  at  once." 

Eliza  listened  with  all  her  ears.  Something  very 
like  panic  was  written  in  the  faces  of  her  elders. 
Sylvia  stood  at  the  door  the  picture  of  a  pretty  cul- 
prit. Edward  sprang  from  his  chair  with  an  expres- 
sion which  sounded  as  much  like  an  oath  as  was 
convenient  to  feminine  ears  to  infer. 

"  Edward,"  said  Mrs.  Armstrong,  rather  quickly, 
but  in  the  most  fatigued  of  her  evangelical  tones ; 
"  this  cannot  be  prevented.  It  must  be  met" 

And  at  the  last  word  she  brought  her  clenched 
hand  down  upon  the  table  with  a  silent  emphasis 
which  Eliza  found  dreadful.  It  would  have  been 
less  so  had  the  cups  jingled. 

"  At  least  let  Gilbert  hurry  for  the  doctor,"  im- 
plored Aunt  Caroline. 

"Sylvia,"  said  Mrs.  Armstrong;  4<you  have  car- 
ried one  order  to  the  stable.  Carry  another  now." 

Gilbert  began  to  drink  down  his  coffee  in  great 
gulps. 

"The  dog-cart!"  shouted  Edward,  as  Sylvia's 
bright  skirt  vanished  through  a  second  door.  "  Gil- 
bert will  want  to  bring  the  doctor  back." 

The  blow  fell  heaviest  upon  Edward.  He  had 
such  a  very  long  list  of  matters  that  were  of  the 
highest  importance.  Things  were  always  "  trem- 
bling in  the  balance  "  with  him.  It  was  that  which 
brought  the  sense  of  instability  into  existence. 
When  a  hair's-breadth  or  the  cut  of  a  collar  may 
117 


Life  the  Accuser. 

wreck  you,  life  is  apt  to  present  itself  as  a  series  of 
cataclysms. 

That  morning,  when  he  entered  his  father's 
dressing-room  (a  place  which  the  old  man  had 
found  it  convenient  to  secure  to  himself  as  a  refuge), 
he  stood  as  high  in  the  estimation  of  his  family  as  it 
was  possible  to  do.  He  found  his  father  partially 
dressed  and  seated  near  the  window  in  the  warm 
sunlight.  Mr.  Armstrong  did  not  at  first  notice  his 
son's  entry,  and  Edward,  as  he  opened  the  door, 
hesitated,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  little  table  by  his 
father's  side.  Upon  that  table  lay  the  two  books 
which  Mr.  Armstrong  was  wont  to  say  had  formed 
the  basis  of  his  conduct  in  life  and  his  success. 
These  books  were  the  Bible  and  Smiles's  "  Self- 
Help."  The  look  of  the  worn  bindings  was  some- 
thing as  familiar  to  Edward's  eyes  as  the  rough 
outline  of  his  father's  profile  traced  out  against  the 
window-pane,  the  head  a  little  bent  in  moody  reflec- 
tion. From  the  Bible  the  old  man  had  culled  an  elastic 
and  evasive  morality,  a  solid  expectation  of  mansions 
and  golden  floors  in  the  future  (not  unmingled  with 
a  curiously  persistent  taste  for  mahogany  furniture), 
ancl  a  rich  knowledge  of  fine  old  English  phrase- 
ology. From  the  second  book  he  had  taken  that 
line  of  conduct  to  which  throughout  his  career  he 
had  conscientiously  adhered.  Smiles's  "  Self-Help  " 
was  his  epic  of  life.  That  and  the  Bible  occupied 
in  his  mind  places  of  equal  importance,  and  he 
accorded  to  them  a  like  veneration.  He  read  with 
118 


Hot  Summer. 

an  equally  satisfied  sense  of  pious  emotion  the 
resonant  passages  in  which  the  Psalmist  damns  his 
foes,  and  the  sentences  in  whose  trim  glow  Smiles 
canonises  his  saints.  To  Edward  himself  the  books 
had  become  a  superstition  from  long  association. 
As  a  child,  by  his  father's  side,  and  under  his  fa- 
ther's guiding  ringer,  he  had  stammered  through 
marked  passages  of  "  Self-Help,"  and  had  accepted 
them  as  the  very  foundation  of  life's  success,  and 
the  corner-stone  of  that  moral  bridge  by  which  you 
pass  on  to  an  affluence  and  distinction  not  shared 
by  your  fellows.  He  knew  certain  of  the  passages 
by  heart,  could  see  them  in  the  eye  of  his  mind 
through  the  closed  covers  on  the  fading,  well- 
thumbed  page,  with  the  deeply  marked  pencil  lines 
beside  them,  — 

"  The  other  barbers  found  their  customers  leav- 
ing them,  and  reduced  their  prices  to  his  standard, 
when  Arkwright,  determined  to  push  his  trade, 
announced  his  determination  to  give  *  a  clean  shave 
for  a  half-penny/  " 

"  Sir  James  Graham  rose  after  him,  and  declared, 
amidst  the  cheers  of  the  House,  that  it  rendered  him 
more  proud  than  he  had  ever  before  been  of  the 
H.  of  C.,  to  think  that  a  person  risen  from  that 
condition  should  be  able  to  sit  side  by  side,  on 
equal  terms,  with  the  hereditary  gentry  of  the 
land." 

"He  had  many  sons,  and  placed  them  all  in 
situations  where  they  might  be  useful  to  each 
119 


Life  the  Accuser. 

other.  .  .  .  He  lived  to  see  his  children  connected 
together  in  business." 

"  The  family  was  worthily  ennobled  in  the  reign 
of  Charles  II." 

"  Search  was  made,  and  presently  a  diver  came 
up  with  a  solid  bar  of  silver  in  his  arms.  When 
Phipps  was  shown  it,  he  exclaimed,  t  Thanks  be  to 
God !  we  are  all  made  men.  .  .  .'  Phipps'  share 
was  about  .£20,000,  and  the  king,  to  show  his 
approval  of  his  energy  and  honesty  in  conducting 
the  enterprise,  conferred  upon  him  the  honour  of 
knighthood." 

And  so  on,  in  the  style  of  that  famous  little  Jack 
who  "  pulled  out  the  plum,"  and  reflected  upon  his 
own  virtue,  Edward,  with  his  eyes  on  the  old 
leather  binding,  recalled  the  familiar  and  encourag- 
ing lessons.  They  were  like  a  good  omen,  and, 
shaking  off  his  hesitation,  he  came  forward  and 
showed  himself  to  his  father.  The  old  man's  eyes 
glistened,  and  his  face  wakened  up. 

"  Well,  Edward  lad  !  "  said  he. 

"  You  're  not  quite  yourself,  father,  this  morning, 
I  understand,"  said  Edward. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  and  then  let  it  droop 
again  to  his  breast.  Edward  seated  himself  oppo- 
site, and  looked  stealthily  at  the  handsome  crown 
of  wavy  white  hair  and  the  sleepy  mask  of  the  old 
face.  How  should  he  reach  his  finger  to  the  secret 
which  that  imperturbability  concealed  ? 

"  We  Ve  sent  for  the  doctor,  father,"   said  he, 
120 


Hot  Summer. 

cheerily  ;  "we  're  not  going  to  let  you  slip  through 
our  hands,  you  know." 

The  old  man's  eyebrows  moved  slightly  upwards, 
and  he  lifted  the  ringers  of  one  hand  from  the  arm 
of  the  chair  over  which  they  fell ;  but  that  was  his 
only  response. 

"  Still  —  you  are  n't  over  bad,  you  know.  For 
you  were  brisk  enough  to  send  off  a  telegram  this 
morning?  " 

The  old  man  did  not  raise  his  head,  but  he 
opened  his  faded  lids  and  stole  a  quick  glance  at 
his  son.  Mr.  Armstrong's  eyes  were  of  a  light-blue 
colour ;  and  if  there  is  an  eye  which  can  dart  a  ray 
of  suspicion  and  lively  cunning  better  than  another, 
it  is  a  smallish  eye  of  a  skyish-blue.  Edward's 
heart  jumped  under  the  glance. 

"Who  —  told—  you  —  that  I  had  sent  out  a 
telegram?"  said  Mr.  Armstrong  slowly,  when  his 
lids  had  fallen  back  to  their  former  posture. 

"  Sylvia,  of  course,"  said  Edward  lightly. 

Old  Mr.  Armstrong  moistened  his  lips  once  or 
twice. 

"You  know,"  said  Edward,  encouraged  by  this 
sign  of  nervousness,  "  you  have  never  any  occasion 
to  worry  yourself,  father.  I  am  here.  You  should 
just  send  for  me  when  you  want  things  done." 

Mr.  Armstrong  blinked  his  eyes.  He  looked 
like  an  obstinate  child  who  has  done  the  mischief, 
and  has  some  satisfaction  in  reflecting  that  it  is 
irreparable.  It  was  very  difficult  for  Edward  to 

121 


Life  the  Accuser. 

keep  up  his  sympathetic  tone  in  face  of  this  pro- 
voking demeanour,  and  whilst  his  heart  was  groan- 
ing under  the  weight  of  important  affairs  which  had 
to  be  carried  through  this  narrow  way  of  gins  and 
snares,  a  ditch  on  either  side. 

"  You  have  telegraphed  for  old  John  Armstrong, 
I  understand?"  ventured  he,  rendered  desperate 
by  his  father's  enigmatical  silence. 

"  Who  —  told  —  you  —  I  had  telegraphed  for 
John  Armstrong  ? "  said  the  latter,  in  a  slow  loud 
tone. 

"  Sylvia,  of  course,"  replied  Edward,  quite  in  the 
role  of  Adam. 

"  I  gave  Sylvia  a  sealed  envelope.  If  she  opened 
it " 

Evidences  of  extreme  anger  struggled  in  his  face, 
and  prevented  further  utterance.  He  looked  at  his 
son  with  a  helplessly  tragic  rage  in  his  *  dim  blue 
eyes. 

"No  —  no  !  "  cried  Edward,  quickly ;  "  when  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  she  only  said  you  told  her  to 
carry  a  telegram  to  the  stable." 

"  That  is  as  it  may  be,"  returned  Mr.  Armstrong, 
instantly  mollified. 

He  turned  his  head  a  little  and  looked  out  at 
the  garden.  A  cold,  steely  fear  lay  between  the 
two.  On  Edward's  side  were  those  high  impor- 
tances. On  his  father's  was  a  thought  running  like 
a  rat  through  hairbreadth  escapes  to  its  lair. 

"Then  you  did  not  telegraph  to  old  John  Arm- 

122 


Hot  Summer. 

strong?"  questioned  Edward,  as  carelessly  as  he 
could. 

"  No,"  said  his  father,  suddenly  and  shortly. 

The  extreme  unexpectedness  of  the  reply  knocked 
Edward's  mind  flat.  He  was  not  in  reality  a  ready 
man.  People  who  have  so  many  selfish  issues 
risked  on  the  moment  rarely  are  adepts  at  this  kind 
of  duel ;  they  give  themselves  away  in  their  colour, 
their  lips,  their  glances.  And  Edward,  when  the 
special  fear  was  killed  by  the  leaping  upon  it  of  a 
host  of  vaguer  but  more  terrible  surmises,  showed 
obvious  trepidation.  He  was  pale  in  the  jowl,  and 
his  lips  drew  in.  He  was  not  one  to  stand  with 
equanimity  under  the  startling  shifts  of  fortune. 
Mr.  Armstrong  watched  him  reflectively,  moistening 
his  lips  and  ruminating  this  manifestation  of  alarm. 

"  I  telegraphed  to  Dayntree,"  said  he  quietly,  at 
last,  "  in  reply  to  a  letter  from  him." 

"  To  Dayntree ! "  exclaimed  Edward,  in  the 
deepest  surprise. 

"  Yes.  You  know,  Edward,  when  I  'm  gone  I 
want  you  to  have  a  strong  man  of  affairs  to  help 
you  with  advice.  And  Dayntree  has  been  good 
enough  to  yield  to  my  wish." 

He  stole  a  cunning,  half-frightened  glance  at  his 
son  as  he  spoke,  which  was  not  noticed.  The  in- 
ference Edward  made  was  that  Mr.  Dayntree  was 
appointed  co-executor  with  himself,  and  he  sorted 
the  news  with  a  rapid  finger,  nipping  his  small  fair 
moustache  between  his  lips  and  frowning  the  while. 
123 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Dayntree's  position  was  so  high  that  his  name  could 
not  fail  to  cast  a  reflected  glory ;  but  Edward  did 
not  like  the  idea  of  being  overshadowed.  He 
wanted  a  freer  hand  than  was  comprehended  in  a 
partnership  with  Mr.  Dayntree,  for  he  was  by  no 
means  certain  of  his  ability  to  manage  things  exactly 
as  he  wished  over  the  head  of  such  a  man  as  he. 
And  yet  the  attraction  of  this  glittering  alliance  was 
very  great ;  it  had  in  itself  its  own  uses. 

"  Dayntree  of  course  is  in  a  first-rate  position," 
said  he  slowly,  without  removing  his  frowning  stare 
at  the  ground. 

"  Dayntree  is  the  square  man  in  the  square  hole," 
said  his  father. 

But  Edward  did  not  want  the  assistance  of  a 
square  man.  He  had  supreme  belief  in  his  own 
power  so  to  manipulate  things  that  they  should 
bring  him  out  top.  He  had  no  intention  whatever 
of  cheating  his  relations,  but  he  very  much  resented 
having  the  opportunity  of  doing  so  completely 
erased  from  the  calculation.  He  disliked  any- 
thing so  fit  and  straightforward  as  his  father  had 
planned. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Ned,  my  lad,"  said  old  Arm- 
strong, his  face  softening  at  the  obvious  depression 
of  his  son,  "  I  've  got  my  property  very  well  in- 
vested. But  there  's  one  lot  worth  the  whole  of  the 
rest  put  together." 

Edward's  eager  eyes  leaped  to  his  father's  face, 
and  hung  there. 

124 


Hot  Summer. 

"  Yes,  lad ;  that 's  the  way  of  it.  Now  I  must 
talk  things  over  with  Dayntree,  and  see  how  we  can 
manage  to  put  the  bird  that  lays  the  golden  egg  in 
your  hen-roost.  Eh  ?  " 

The  old  man's  eyes  turned  upon  his  son.  The 
thing  which  he  had  just  said  was  the  last  thing  he 
intended  to  say.  But  the  habit  of  his  infatuated 
affection  for  Edward  made  him  fall  to  inconsistent 
postures ;  at  the  moment  this  uneasy  yearning  found 
no  other  outlet  than  concessions  to  his  son's  spirit 
of  selfishness  and  greed.  His  glance  sought  over 
Edward's  face  and  read  it  quite  clearly,  but  he  had 
no  power  for  the  moment  to  recall  his  own  deter- 
mination, or  to  rescue  himself  from  the  old  influ- 
ence. His  lids  dropped  again,  leaving  his  face  a 
rugged  mask,  —  the  curved  lines  above  the  eyebrows 
lending  it  a  tragic  force ;  the  subtle  marking  of  the 
chin  indicating  a  rather  gross  form  of  pride ;  while 
the  folding  of  the  lips  in  habitual  reticence,  and  the 
depressed  pose  of  the  head,  gave  the  whole  the 
touch  of  pathos. 

"  You  are  very  good,  sir,"  said  Edward,  in  cau- 
tious effusion  and  profound  respect. 

"  I  'm  not  sure  that  you  '11  like  the  colour  of  your 
money  when  you  get  it,  all  the  same,"  said  Mr. 
Armstrong,  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  think,  sir,  you  must  mean  that  it  lies  in  the 
direction  of  cotton,"  insinuated  Edward. 

"  No,"  came  his  father's  cautious  tones,  —  "  not 
cotton." 

I25 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Edward  was  startled  again ;  he  hardly  knew 
whether  to  be  gratified  or  the  reverse. 

"You  really  are  very  good,  father,"  he  mur- 
mured, as  he  held  in  his  features  to  moderate 
composure. 

That  softening  on  his  son's  face  melted  the  old 
man  to  a  feebler  mood. 

"I  want  to  see  you  succeed,  Edward,"  he 
whimpered. 

"  Thanks.  I  believe  I  'm  well  on  the  way  to  it," 
said  Edward,  stroking  down  the  leg  of  his  trousers 
complacently. 

"  I  Ve  tried  to  bring  you  up  right,  Edward," 
continued  the  old  man,  wistfully ;  "  I  hope  you  '11 
remember.  Read  your  Bible,  my  lad,  and  —  help 
yourself" 

"Yes,  father.  I  won't  forget,"  said  Edward, 
a  little  impatient  at  these  generalities  when  he  so 
yearned  for  the  particular. 

The  old  eyes  closed  for  a  moment. 

"  You  were  speaking  of —  cotton,"  urged  Edward. 

"Of  cotton!  Nothing  of  the  sort.  Cotton? 
There  is  none.  I  sold  out  of  that  years  ago." 

Edward  was  too  much  astounded  to  speak  at 
first.  His  father's  eyes  were  wide-open  again  and 
face  excited. 

"  Aye  !  I  sold  out  of  it !  I  sold  out  of  it ! 
Wasn't  it  your  wish  I  should  do  so?" 

Edward  rose  and  took  his  father's  hand  and 
shook  it  kindly.  But  the  old  man's  head  sank  to 
126 


Hot  Summer. 

sudden  quiescence  upon  the  pillows,  and  he  hardly 
seemed  conscious  of  his  son's  presence. 

"Hold  up,  father!"  said  Edward,  speaking 
loud  and  clear  in  his  ear ;  "  you  're  all  right  at 
present,  you  know.  What  did  you  do  with  the 
money?" 

"Mines,"  answered  Mr.  Armstrong;  "I  put  it 
into  mines — ' Sherman's  Reward7  is  the  name. 
The  mills  were  the  bird  that  laid  the  golden  egg, 
and  the  mines  can  hatch  it." 

"You  did  very  well,  father,"  said  Edward,  em- 
phatically and  with  a  sudden  rise  of  respect  for  his 
progenitor ;  "  I  am  exceedingly  glad  of  this  good 
news.  And  this  is  my  portion?" 

Mr.  Armstrong  opened  his  eyes  again  and  looked 
straight  into  the  face  of  his  son.  If  there  was  one 
thing  dear  to  his  mind  in  that  moment,  it  was  that 
Edward  was  the  child  of  some  moral  obliquity  of 
his  own,  the  direct  issue  of  that  part  of  his  own 
nature  which  had  tinctured  all  his  life  with  ruinous 
remorse. 

"That  is  as  it  may  be,"  said  he,  moving  rest- 
lessly in  his  chair.  "  I  shall  look  after  you,  lad  — 
be  sure  of  that  —  and,  Edward,  don't  you  forget. 
1  Look  after  the  main/  as  old  Theophilus  —  damn 
him  —  used  to  say." 

"  Mr.  Theophilus  Armstrong  of  Harebarrow 
Vale?"  questioned  Edward,  scandalised. 

He  had  an  image  of  a  marble  tomb  recording 
virtues,  of  a  portrait  of  rather  sanctimonious  re- 
127 


Life  the  Accuser. 

spectability  with  baggy  under-lids  and  a  gold 
chain. 

"  Well,  lad,"  whimpered  his  father,  irrelevantly, 
"  *  the  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away,' 
and  you  must  forgive  me,  for  I  wrote  to  my  cousin, 
John  Armstrong,  and  he  's  coming  to-morrow." 

"What  on  earth  did  you  do  that  for?"  asked 
Edward,  in  consternation  tempered  by  the  good 
news  he  had  heard. 

"A  man  is  glad  to  see  an  old  face  before  he 
dies,"  returned  his  father. 

"  Well !  You  shall !  "  said  Edward,  in  diplomatic 
yielding,  "  I  '11  talk  mother  over." 

"  Tell  her  to  get  the  best  bed  ready,"  said  old 
Armstrong. 

Edward  nodded  as  he  left  the  room. 


128 


Hot  Summer. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  summer  days  burned  on  exhaustingly.  A 
young  fellow  in  the  dress  of  a  mechanic,  who  had 
walked  the  five  miles  between  the  station  and  the 
lodge  gates  of  the  Manor  House,  turned  into  them 
with  a  sense  of  relief.  Some  coolness  was  to  be 
found  under  the  shadow  of  the  century-old  trees, 
and  the  grass  was  delicious  after  the  beaten  road. 
He  knew  what  heat  was  in  tropical  lands,  but  de- 
clared to  himself  that  when  England  chose  to  be 
hot.  it  was  hotter  than  anywhere  else.  He  was  a 
tall  young  fellow  with  a  graceful  figure  that  gave  the 
impression  of  agile  strength,  and  he  had  the  general 
appearance  which  led  men  to  sum  him  up  colloquially 
as  having  "  a  head  on  his  shoulders."  He  came  in 
at  the  side  gate  in  a  quick,  unpretentious  sort  of 
way,  closing  it  after  him  gently,  so  that  his  step  on 
the  gravel  was  the  only  thing  that  signalised  his 
passing  to  the  lodge-keeper's  wife.  That  personage 
threw  a  careless  glance  out  of  a  diamond-paned 
window;  then  she  pressed  a  good-humoured  face 
eagerly  against  it;  then  she  snatched  up  a  clean 
apron  and  ran  outside,  binding  it  about  her  portly 
9  129 


Life  the  Accuser. 

waist.  The  graceful  figure  in  the  worn  and  scanty 
blue  serge  suit  was  passing  along  up  the  drive  in 
the  shadow  of  the  trees ;  she  stared  after  him,  her 
lips  breaking  into  ejaculations. 

"  Well !  If  ever  I  did  !  No,  it  never  is  !  But 
it  is,  though  !  ?Ome  from  his  travels  —  for  them 
clothes  has  seen  some  wear.  Lord,  love  the  boy ! 
There  '11  be  some  mending  to  do  ! " 

And  she  wiped  a  benedictory  tear  from  her 
eye. 

The  young  workman  did  not  take  the  way  to  the 
back  of  the  house,  as  became  one  in  his  station  ;  he 
walked  straight  for  the  front  terrace.  A  bed  of 
laurels  and  a  group  of  beech-trees  separated  the 
part  of  the  gravel  terrace  up  which  he  was  walking 
from  a  lawn ;  he  heard  voices  beyond,  and  caught 
sight  between  the  foliage  of  the  summer  muslins  of 
women.  He  walked  more  slowly,  a  pleasant  hesi- 
tation in  his  manner  and  gladness  in  his  eyes.  He 
could  see  them  there  in  a  group  under  the  trees 
drinking  afternoon  tea  and  talking.  Constantia  was 
there,  and  Irene,  and  a  girl  whose  appearance  hq 
rather  liked.  It  was  she  who  caught  sight  of  him 
first.  She  saw  him  stepping  on  to  the  grass  between 
the  beech-trees,  lifting  a  shabby  blue  cap. 

"  Some  one  is  coming,"  said  Eliza,  her  eyes  held 
by  the  stranger's  brown  ones. 

The  freshness  of  the  whole  picture  was  a  poem 
to  the  young  fellow  after  a  dusty  day,  and  he  was 
considering  amongst  other  items  that  a  pink  and 
130 


Hot  Summer. 

white  skin  and  red-gold  hair  made  a  delicate  bit  of 
tinting  under  a  wide  hat  drawn  with  apple-green 
silk.  Constantia  turned. 

"  It  is  Evan  !     Irene  !     It  is  Evan  !  " 

"  I  am  really  not  fit  to  touch,"  said  the  young 
man,  glad  under  the  caressing  fingers  of  his  kins- 
woman ;  "I  preferred  to  come  up  on  the  engine." 

His  eyes  wandered  again  to  the  face  —  delicate, 
he  thought,  like  a  shell  or  a  moth  —  under  the 
apple-green  hat. 

"  This  is  a  very  old  friend  of  ours,  Eliza,"  said 
Constantia,  when  Irene  had  finished  her  admiring 
astonishment  at  his  growth,  his  moustache,  and  his 
broad  shoulders  ;  "  he  is  a  relation  of  Norman's  — 
one  we  have  not  seen  for  some  years.  His  name  is 
Evan  Dayntree." 

"  He  had  a  bald  head  and  a  long  white  frock  on 
when  we  first  saw  him,"  said  Irene,  "  and  was,  his 
nurse  said,  '  a  very  masterful  young  gentleman.'  " 

"  But  I  remember  the  name  !  I  think  —  do  I 
not  know  him?" 

The  two  young  people  were  looking  hard  at  each 
other,  and  out  of  either  face  peeped  for  the  moment, 
to  each  pair  of  eyes,  the  round,  unformed  physiog- 
nomy of  a  child,  and  then  was  lost  again  in  the 
maturer  features.  It  was  towards  this  flashing 
reminiscence  of  a  laughing,  familiar  playmate  that 
the  two  stretched  hands  and  clasped  them. 

"  Why,  it 's  Eliza !  " 

"  Evan  ! " 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Of  course  !  "  cried  Constantia,  utterly  delighted. 

"  You  were  the  funniest  little  girl ! "  said  he  of 
the  brown  eyes. 

"  And  you  such  a  merry  boy !  " 

"  And  you  're  kind  enough  to  recognise  me  in 
spite  of  my  clothes  ?  I  'm  afraid  I  was  a  rough  play- 
mate. You  were  a  trustful  little  thing,  and  believed 
everything  I  said " 

"  I  remember  only  kindness." 

"  Oh  !  you  were  a  small  brick  and  followed  on 
splendidly.  I'm  afraid  I  tormented  you," — he 
had  rubbed  his  hair  back  uneasily  at  the  praise.  — 
"  And  so  you  don't  mind  my  clothes  ?  I  Ve  been 
walking  as  well  as  driving  the  engine,"  said  he, 
turning  to  Constantia.  "  It  must  be  six  miles  from 
the  station  here  round  by  the  commons.  I  came 
up  from  the  North  with  my  old  friend,  John  Arm- 
strong ;  he  is  staying  somewhere  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  he  chose  to  walk.  I  accompanied  him 
to  the  gate,  where  a  most  exquisite  young  gentleman 
dismissed  me  as  a  tramp." 

That  last  was  not  to  be  mistaken,  and  Eliza 
pricked  up  her  ears. 

"  Armstrong  !  "  she  exclaimed ;  "  that  must  be 
my  relative." 

Evan  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  faced 
round. 

"  Your  name  is  Armstrong,  too,  of  course  ;  I  am 
getting  it  all  into  line  at  last.  Well !  if  old  John 
Armstrong  is  kin  of  yours,  you  are  fortunate.  But 
132 


Hot  Summer. 

I  remark  that  there  are  points  where  you  resemble 
him." 

His  finger  in  quick  succession  touched  his  brows, 
lips,  and  chin.  The  old  acquaintance  threw  them 
into  familiarity  from  the  first. 

"  Good-bye,  Constantia,"  said  Eliza,  feeling  un- 
accountably happy  ;  "  I  must  go  now.  Good-bye, 
Irene." 

She  held  her  hand  to  Evan. 

"I  am  glad  I  resemble  old  Mr.  Armstrong," 
said  she. 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  he. 

"  We  shall  keep  Evan  here  ever  so  long,"  said 
Constantia.  "You  must  come  and  tell  us  about 
your  relative.  But  we  shall  hear  from  Norman, 
perhaps.  He  is  going  to  your  house  to-night ;  he 
is  expected  there,  I  believe." 

The  glow  on  Eliza's  face  faded.  Upon  leaving 
the  Manor  House  she  turned  in  the  direction  of 
"  South  Downs."  She  had  called  on  Constantia 
first,  really  with  a  view  to  bracing  her  spirit  before 
making  the  visitation  upon  Rosalie ;  she  wanted  to 
erase  as  quickly  as  possible  the  confusedly  unpleas- 
ant impressions  of  the  last  interview,  —  impressions 
which,  with  habitual  humility,  she  set  down  to  her 
own  mistakes.  But  so  strong  had  been  the  uneasi- 
ness created,  that  her  feet  seemed  to  drag  on  the 
way,  and  to  make  as  though  they  would  turn  back 
of  themselves.  She  found  it  impossible  to  pass 
round  to  the  fruit-garden,  and  to  enter  unobserved 
133 


Life  the  Accuser. 

by  the  glass  doors  over  the  bridge  according  to  the 
usual  plan,  and  so  the  front  bell  rang  formally. 
Rosalie,  when  summoned,  entered  the  Louis  Quinze 
drawing-room  with  a  face  of  bright  defiance.  She 
found  Eliza  seated  on  the  sofa  under  a  heathen  god 
and  banner,  making  depressed  efforts  to  converse 
with  Mrs.  Trelyon,  whose  cleverness  was  not  apt 
to  waste  itself  on  unconsidered  hearers,  and  who 
responded  in  sleepy  monosyllables.  Rosalie's  face 
changed  instantly  to  comic  amazement. 

"  Eliza  !  The  front  door-bell !  We  advance  in 
civilisation  indeed  !  I  thought  it  was  at  least  '  Aunt 
Caroline '  come  to  inform  mother  that  I  took  a 
lonely  gallop  over  the  commons  yesterday  afternoon 
without  attendance.  But  mother  found  it  out  her- 
self. The  servants,  you  know,  are  paid  spies,  and 
Glynn  has  been  in  tears.  But  I  ask  mother  to  look 
at  the  matter  from  the  bright  side,  and  to  be  thank- 
ful that  I  took  a  saddle.  A  saddle  is  sufficient 
chaperon,  I  consider.'* 

Eliza  was  extricated  from  her  conversation  dif- 
ficulties, and  Mrs.  Trelyon  in  relief  vouchsafed  a 
phrase. 

"  Our  local  Ccelebs  is  once  more  actively  in  search, 
I  believe  ?  "  said  she,  with  an  inquiring  smile. 

Eliza  looked  bewildered. 

"  Oh,  never  mind !  "  said  Rosalie,  kindly ;  "  mother, 
you  need  not  talk  local  politics  to  Eliza  :  it  is  pure 
waste  of  time." 

On  the  way  from  the  drawing-room  to  her  own 
134 


Hot  Summer. 

particular  sanctum,  Rosalie  called  at  the  pantry  and 
brought  out  a  plate  of  cherries  ;  when  in  her  room 
she  took  some  freshly  gathered  flowers  from  a  vase, 
and  made  them  into  a  knot  for  Eliza's  breast.  In 
her  bright  friendliness  no  hint  of  last  night's  trouble 
was  discoverable ;  she  had  the  art  of  discarding  a 
past  shadow,  and  throwing  into  a  new  moment  all 
the  freshness  of  her  spirit.  Eliza's  timid  overture 
was  royally  met  —  and  yet  the  anxious  wonder 
lying  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  won  no  reply. 

"What  did  Mrs.  Trelyon  mean?"  said  Eliza, 
taking  a  low  seat  in  the  shadow  which  the  sun- 
blinds  made  near  the  window. 

"  She  meant  that  a  man  honestly  determined  to 
make  an  honest  woman  of  some  one,  adjusts  his 
benevolence  to  the  circumstances." 

"  Rosalie  !  You  know  I  can't  make  out  what 
you  mean." 

"And  what  /  meant  was  that  sarcasms  of  the 
kind  were  lost  on  the  dove-winged  innocence  of 
my  friend.  Eliza !  there  are  moments  when  I 
envy  you." 

Out  of  habitual  determination  to  be  at  all  moments 
aggressively  defiant  of  Glynn's  sense  of  the  proper, 
Rosalie  seated  herself  upon  the  table  ;  she  swung  a 
daintily  slippered  foot  idly  up  and  down,  and  con- 
templated her  friend  with  eyes  that  deepened  to  a 
beautiful  melancholy. 

"  Of  me  !  "  cried  Eliza,  humbly  incredulous. 

"  Of  you.  I  see  wings  folded  under  your  muslin, 
135 


Life  the  Accuser. 

and  a  halo  over  your  hair.  What  a  safe  creature 
you  are,  to  be  sure  !  If  one  strikes  you,  the  quality 
of  the  note  is  sound." 

"  Rosalie  !  I  don't  like  being  compared  to  an 
angel." 

"  There  !  what  did  I  say  ?  '  Strike  you  and  the 
quality  of  the  note  is  sound.'  You  repudiate  the 
angelic ;  your  human  nature  is  rich  and  safe.  Now 
look  here ! " 

She  took  some  cherries  from  the  dish,  dangled 
them  by  the  stalk  above  her  face,  and  snapped  at 
them  with  her  teeth. 

"  You  bet  I  catch  this  one  !  "  said  she,  tossing 
up  another  and  snatching  at  it  with  her  mouth. 

"  There  ! "  said  she,  as  her  lips  closed  over  it ; 
"  it  ?s  in  !  "  Her  eyes  shone  in  childish  delight  and 
a  little  surprise.  "  Now  try."  And  she  threw  some 
over  to  Eliza. 

With  all  her  boyish  movements  and  ways,  she 
never  for  a  moment  looked  masculine.  That  was 
sometimes  inexplicable  to  Eliza.  It  was  the  femi- 
nine attractiveness,  her  great  grace  and  charm  as  a 
woman  binding  and  limiting  her  audacity,  that  ren- 
dered her  irresistible.  Eliza  accepted  the  cherry 
without  trying  the  trick. 

"  I  saw  some  one  new  this  afternoon,"  said  she. 

"  New  !  '  Can  any  good  thing  come  out  of  Naz- 
areth ? '  Man  or  woman." 

"  Man.     His  clothes  were  remarkable." 

"  Not  a  foreigner?    I  am  sick  to  death  of  them. 


Hot  Summer. 

One  makes  havoc  of  them  so  easily.     There  's  no 
joy  of  conquest." 

"  I  never  said  a  foreigner." 

"  Englishman  then.  That 's  better.  An  English- 
man is  like  a  fortress  of  which  you  have  n't  got  the 
plan.  Let  me  see.  You  said  clothes.  Oh,  an 
acrobat !  Now,  fairly,  I  do  love  acrobats." 

"  An  acrobat !    As  if  I  should  notice  an  acrobat ! " 

"  That 's  where  you  're  so  silly,  Eliza.  An  acro- 
bat is  beautiful." 

"Well!     He  is  n't  an  acrobat." 

"An  ordinary  Englishman?  As  I  say,  in  an 
Englishman  there  are  generally  infinite  possibilities." 

"  Not  ordinary." 

"  Where  did  you  meet  him?" 

"  At  the  Manor  House." 

Rosalie  tossed  another  cherry  in  the  air,  snapped 
at  it,  and  missed  it. 

"  Now  out  with  it,  Eliza  !  Why  is  n't  he  ordinary  ?  " 

"  Because  of  his  clothes." 

"  Had  he  perhaps  been  dressed  exclusively  at  a 
ready-made  clothing  establishment?  Oh!  a  sol- 
dier, perhaps." 

"Nothing  as  grand  as  that." 

"A  clergyman?  But  you  said  'not  ordinary. ' 
A  sailor?" 

"  Neither.     He  is  just  a  gentleman." 

"  Ugh !  The  description  makes  me  creep. 
Young?" 

"  Yes." 

137 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  A  young  gentleman.  Why  do  I  infallibly  think 
of  smooth  thin  hair  and  nursery  innocence?  I 
hate  the  inexperienced.'7 

"He  is 'about  twenty-five.  His  hair  was  dark 
brown  and  very  untidy.  I'm  not  sure  that  his 
hands  were  quite  clean.  There  may  have  been  a 
smudge  on  his  forehead.  He  had  been  driving  an 
engine,  and  he  was  dressed  like  a  common  man. 
And  yet  he  is  a  friend  of  Constantia's.  You  don't 
guess  at  all  well." 

"  I  know  the  sort  of  person,"  said  Rosalie,  with  a 
little  grimace  ;  "  I  detest  him  already.  He  is  a 
reformer  —  a  person  with  a  craze  about  the  People, 
who  shows  a  great  deal  more  throat  than  is  at  all 
nice,  and  yet  fails  of  being  as  interesting  as  a 
Cowboy.  I  don't  distinguish  them  from  local 
preachers." 

"  Rosalie  !  " 

"Well?" 

"  I  thought  him  —  I  thought  I  had  never  seen 
any  one  in  the  least  like  him." 

Rosalie's  eyes  laughed. 

"  You  've  seen  such  a  small  assortment  of  any- 
thing." She  sought  amongst  the  cherries.  Eliza's 
eyes  dreamed.  "  I  '11  leave  you  your  hero.  You 
shall  have  him  all  to  yourself." 

"What  do  you  say  things  like  that  for?"  said 
Eliza,  shrinkingly.  "  It  is  nothing  but  my  old  friend 
Evan  —  the  boy  I  told  you  of  that  I  used  to  play 
with/' 

138 


Hot  Summer. 

She  felt  as  though  she  had  been  bending  her  face 
over  some  darkly  clear  and  wonderfully  still  pool, 
and  some  one  had  carelessly  cast  a  stone  in  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  Come  !  Don't  curl  up  like  a  sensitive  plant. 
It  occurred  to  me  to  make  the  remark.  I  believe 
you  would  be  offended  if  I  said  you  were  pretty." 

Eliza  blushed  and  looked  shy. 

"  No,  I  should  n't,"  said  she  ;  "  I  should  like  to 
hear  it ;  but  I  don't  think  I  should  believe  it." 

"Not  with  that  hair?" 

u  My  hair  is  nothing  —  except  conspicuous." 

"  But  there 's  your  fair  skin  and  colour." 

"That  lacks  mystery  and  shadow.  I  prefer  a 
Hindoo.  But  don't  catalogue  me,  please  ! " 

"  I  'm  not  to  be  stopped.  I  think  you  clever. 
Your  remarks  often  amaze  me." 

"  I  only  talk  my  best  to  you." 

"Eliza  !  when  they  pruned  you  into  a  stick,  they 
spoiled  you." 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  Nevertheless  you  are  pretty,  and  you  are  clever." 

"  If  I  am,  I  might  just  as  well  not  be." 

"How  is  that?  But  I  know.  Clever  girl! 
straight  to  the  point  as  usual.  You  mean  that  it 's 
no  use  possessing  beauty  unless  you  have  in  addi- 
tion the  indescribable  power  of  looking  as  though 
you  possessed  it." 

"  Just  so.     Some  have  only  the  second  gift,  and 
it  does  just  as  well  without  the  first,"  said  Eliza. 
139 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Possibly.  It 's  a  refined  kind  of  cheek  —  that 's 
all.  But  there  's  neither  cheek  nor  humbug  about 
you.  You  are  all  dove,  and  none  of  the  serpent. 
Unfortunately  men  (and  women  too)  like  being 
humbugged." 

"  You  have  everything,  Rosalie ! "  said  Eliza,  in 
fervent  admiration.  "  I  don't  think  it  would  mat- 
ter very  much  to  you  if  you  were  not  pretty.  I 
don't  think  it  would  make  any  difference." 

Rosalie  reflected  with  half- shut  lids,  her  eyes 
shining  between. 

"  No  :  fairly,  I  don't  think  it  would.  But  all  the 
same,  it 's  convenient  to  have  the  other  attribute  as 
well."  She  laughed.  She  was  too  handsome,  too 
unself-conscious  not  to  be  able  to  mention  an  obvi- 
ous fact  without  the  smirk  of  it.  "  Now,  Eliza," 
she  continued,  "  why  not  put  on  a  new  man  ?  The 
world  is  so  infinitely  grateful  for  audacity  in  the 
midst  of  its  platitudes.  There 's  nothing  from 
which  men  are  so  anxious  to  be  delivered  as  their 
own  piety." 

"  I  know.  But  I  have  at  least  enough  sense  not 
to  play  the  part  of  the  ass  who  imitated  the  pet 
dog." 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  and  took  up  the  wide 
apple-green  hat  to  replace  on  her  head  preparatory 
to  a  return  home.  Rosalie  watched  in  admiration. 

"  You  really  are  lovely,  Eliza !  —  a  perfect 
picture." 

Eliza  stamped  her  foot. 
140 


Hot  Summer. 

"You  can't  prevail  over  me,"  said  she.  "You 
can't  deceive  me.  I  am  what  I  am.  I  am  aware 
of  myself.  Don't  you  know  that  figure  —  a  subjec- 
tive one  of  the  fancy  —  who  lurks  in  the  obscure 
corners  of  the  mind,  or  creeps  about  its  intricate 
windings,  and  who  solemnly,  inexorably,  patiently, 
turns  the  ever-same  thought  over  and  over,  and 
judges  the  self  as  no  exterior  judge  can  ever  judge 
it  ?  " 

Rosalie,  from  her  table,  stared  for  a  few  seconds 
in  blank  silence,  her  cheek  perceptibly  paler.  Then 
the  colour  flushed  into  it  more  deeply. 

"  Eliza  !  "  cried  she.  "  You  talk  like  Isaiah  and 
Jeremiah,  Moses,  and  all  the  lesser  prophets  !  No. 
Indeed.  I  know  nothing  about  such  creepy  things. 
And  I  would  advise  you  not  to,  either.  Except  that 
you  look  like  a  Sibyl  when  you  talk  like  that,  or 
Deborah,  or  some  one.  It's  really  very  fine  talk. 
Like  a  bit  of  Beethoven,  you  know.  Why  not  do 
it  —  before  Mr.  Dayntree,  for  example?" 

Something  flew  over  her  face  as  she  spoke;  it 
reflected  an  inward  thought  which  certainly  made 
no  appearance  in  her  words. 

"  I  can't  even  think  anything  when  any  one  is 
near  me  —  as  a  rule,"  said  Eliza,  "  much  less  talk." 

"  As  I  say,  the  one  thing  you  lack  is  audacity. 
I  recommend  you  to  get  audacity  and  badness,  as 
they  recommend  you  to  get  wisdom  and  under- 
standing in  the  Bible.  Just  enough  wickedness  to 
give  piquancy,  you  know.  Then  you  're  made. 
141 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Your  great  white  thoughts  want  two  black  wings 
apiece.  Come !  Encourage  yourself." 

The  tears  came  into  Eliza's  eyes. 

"  I  am  going,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  hurry 
home.  Constantia  told  me  that  Mr.  Dayntree  is 
coming  to-night.  I  don't  want  to  meet  him.  I 
shall  escape  as  soon  as  dinner  is  over  and  avoid 

him.  I  hate  to  be  so  foolish "  She  stumbled 

into  incoherence. 

Rosalie  listened  with  downcast  eyes,  a  reddening 
cheek,  and  a  musing  smile. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  with  the  faintest  suspicion  of 
mockery  in  her  voice  when  Eliza  concluded  her 
confused  and  broken  speech  ;  "  I  would  hurry  if  I 
were  you.  You  may  meet  him  coming  along,  you 
know.  Off  with  you  !  Fly !  " 

The  next  moment  she  leapt  from  the  table,  her 
manner  full  of  warmth  and  kindness,  and  took  her 
friend  into  a  fervent  embrace. 

"  Don't  fret  and  be  so  hopelessly  ridiculous,'7  said 
she.  "  Have  some  pluck.  Your  little  finger  is 
worth  most  people's  whole  bodies." 

It  was  honest  affection ;  there  was  not  a  note 
of  falseness  in  it.  The  two  faces  were  pressed 
together ;  the  two  girlish  figures  clung  within  each 
other's  arms. 


142 


Hot  Summer. 


CHAPTER  XL 

"  You  have  quite  a  nursery  garden  here  !  " 

The  words  uttered  in  Mrs.  Trelyon's  velvet  tones 
—  a  wasp's  sting  from  a  flower — had  first  opened 
Edward's  eyes  to  the  effect  of  the  improvements  at 
The  Court.  It  is  one  thing  to  walk  in  imagination 
in  the  shades  of  an  avenue  of  a  hundred  years' 
growth,  and  another  to  pass  in  sober  reality  between 
a  row  of  little  trees  of  your  own  planting.  Mrs. 
Trelyon's  remark  hung  corrosively  in  his  memory, 
but  old  John  Armstrong's  observations  as  he  walked 
up  the  drive  from  the  gate  where  Edward  had  met 
him  were,  in  the  utter  absence  of  malicious  intent,  a 
worse  offence. 

"  Now  what  trees  does  the  soil  suit  best?  "  asked 
he,  eyeing  the  striplings  that  flanked  either  side  with 
a  ribbon  of  many-tinted  green. 

"I  really  don't  know,"  said  Edward,  coldly; 
"that's  the  gardener's  department." 

"  Every  tree  to  its  soil,"  pursued  old  John,  lay- 
ing his  stick  against  the  slender  stem  of  a  beech  and 
innocently  measuring  its  height ;  "  in  my  country  it 
is  the  mountain  ash  and  the  larch.  Not  but  what 


Life  the  Accuser. 

we  have  oaks ;  but  they  don't  express  themselves. 
They  tell  a  tale  of  experience  instead,  clinging 
like  half-daft  things  to  the  soil  with  the  scare  of  the 
northwest  wind  in  their  hair.  But  here  I  reckon 
the  oak  and  the  beech  will  do." 

"  There  are  some  fine  oaks  in  a  park  the  other 
side  of  the  common,"  said  Edward,  sulkily. 

"  Ah,  yes.  I  noted  them.  Fine  old  fellows  — 
rooted  in  time  itself.  There  's  a  Holm  oak  there, 
too,  that  '"s  doing  well  enough  seemingly ;  we 
stopped  a  bit  to  see  the  wind  toss  its  branches. 
Winter  and  spring  in  one  moment." 

Edward  wished  that  instead  of  interesting  himself 
in  detail,  his  humble  relative  would  permit  the  full 
effect  of  the  surroundings  to  touch  him.  But  just  as 
they  came  in  sight  of  the  handsome  facade  of  the 
house,  old  John  stopped  again  and  poked  up  the 
soil  to  examine  its  nature. 

"Ay  dear!  dear!"  said  he;  "what  a  soil  for 
pansies  !  Do  you  cultivate  them  ?" 

"  We  don't  cultivate  anything  in  particular,"  re- 
turned Edward ;  "  though,"  he  added  as  an  after- 
thought, "  I  intend  to  build  glass  and  take  up 
orchids." 

"Ah!"  said  John,  absently;  "well,  I  don't 
blame  you.  They  're  tickle  things,  are  pansies.  It 
takes  a  man's  patience  to  grow  'em,  and  then  you 
may  fail.  Oh,  it's  heart-breaking  work.  I  don't 
blame  you.  You  may  select  your  seed,  and  give  a 
deal  of  thought  to  the  mixing,  and  you  may  nourish 
1 44 


Hot  Summer. 

'em  and  watch  'em  up  —  and  then  they  don't  meet 
your  expectation.  Not,"  he  added,  "  but  what  I  've 
a  good  few  at  home." 

Mr.  Armstrong  sank  that  evening  into  a  lethargic 
state,  from  which  it  was  not  thought  well  to  rouse 
him,  and  Mr.  John  Armstrong's  visit  to  his  chamber 
had  to  be  postponed  until  the  morning.  He  was 
conducted  to  the  drawing-room,  there  to  await 
dinner  in  the  charge  of  Mrs.  Armstrong.  The 
moment  of  his  entry  was  more  trying  to  his  hostess 
than  the  guest.  She  came  forward  with  a  flush  of 
anxious  trepidation,  to  find  a  fine  old  man  with  a 
quiet  musing  face  standing  before  her,  and  gently 
waiting  upon  her  initiative.  There  was  a  simplicity 
about  old  John  that  carried  off  any  surroundings,  and 
the  nil  admirari  air,  which  was  the  result  of  that  sim- 
plicity, would  have  saved  him  from  disaster  any- 
where. Mrs.  Armstrong's  good  breeding  was  too 
genuine  not  to  find  it  a  relief;  she  had  dreaded 
boisterous  encroachment,  but  this  man  was  no 
strange  animal  to  whom  she  had  to  act  as  keeper ; 
he  kept  a  circle  of  distance  of  his  own,  and  left  her 
to  hers.  She  led  him  to  the  window,  and  showed 
him  where,  beyond  the  "  nursery  garden  "  and  a 
peep  of  the  common,  lay,  on  such  a  summer  even- 
ing as  this,  a  soft  faint  pencilling  against  the  sky 
which  men  called  London.  The  nature  of  old  John 
drew  the  best  out  of  Mrs.  Armstrong ;  there  was  an 
inextinguishable  gentleness  about  his  lips  that  was  as 
dew  after  the  arid  atmosphere  of  home  bickerings ; 
10  145 


Life  the  Accuser. 

and  his  unpretentiousness  made  it  a  pleasant  thing 
to  talk  to  him. 

"  He  '11  be  an  old  man  now  —  my  Cousin  Sam  ?  " 
he  inquired. 

"  My  husband  is  seventy  years  of  age,"  returned 
Mrs.  Armstrong. 

"That  will  be  it,"  he  said  ;  "and  yet  his  face  lies 
before  me  as  a  lad's." 

He  moved  his  hand  slowly  over  his  knees  to  in- 
dicate the  clearness  with  which  the  young  face  of 
old  Sam  presented  itself. 

"  My  husband's  mind  is  dissipated,  I  fear,  upon 
worldly  matters,"  said  Mrs.  Armstrong,  "when  I  so 
earnestly  desire  to  see  him  concentrate  it  upon 
things  heavenly." 

"  Ah  ?  "  said  old  John.  "  And  so  you  distinguish 
between  them,  ma'am?" 

All  dinner-time,  Eliza's  eyes  surreptitiously 
watched  the  visitor ;  as  a  relative  he  was  doubly 
interesting.  He  spoke  little,  and  chose  the  plainest 
fare.  Now  and  then  he  joined  in  the  conversation 
with  a  remark  that  seemed  to  her  of  a  finer  quality 
than  she  was  accustomed  to ;  Aunt  Caroline  in  her 
replies  sounded  strained  and  tawdry;  old  Cousin 
John  turned  and  looked  at  her  once  or  twice,  and 
when  she  directed  her  smart  speech  to  him  merely 
answered,  — 

"Just  so,  ma'am." 

He  was  more  silent  after  that.  So  was  Aunt 
Caroline. 

146 


Hot  Summer. 

"  Who  was  that  young  man  you  had  with  you  at 
the  gate,  Mr.  Armstrong?"  asked  Edward,  to  fill 
the  gaps  of  silence ;  "  an  acquaintance  picked  up 
on  the  road?" 

Mr.  John  Armstrong  turned  politely  towards  the 
young  fellow  handling  the  carver  at  the  head  of 
the  table. 

"  An  old  friend,  sir.  We  came  from  the  North 
together." 

He  bent  his  head  courteously  to  Edward's  supe- 
rior social  position,  which  was  somehow  asserted  in 
all  his  movements. 

"  Cousin  John  !  "  —  everybody  turned  and  looked 
at  Eliza  —  "I  know  who  he  is." 

"  Cousin  John,"  seeing  a  timid  girl  face  opposite 
with  the  nervous  pink  creeping  into  the  cheek, 
irradiated  into  a  smile. 

"  He  is  Evan  Dayntree  —  a  relative  of  the  Dayn- 
trees  of  the  Manor  House.  I  saw  him  there  this 
afternoon." 

"Yes,  my  dear.     That  is  it." 

Gilbert,  opening  eyes  and  mouth,  was  about  to 
express  astonishment,  when  Edward,  scarlet  to  the 
brow,  kicked  him  under  the  table.  Eliza  remem- 
bered that  Evan  had  said  she  resembled  old  John 
Armstrong,  and  she  raised  her  finger  to  her  lips  and 
chin  to  trace  the  small  copy  there.  Evan  had 
spoken  of  her  relative  as  his  friend,  and  it  thrilled 
her  with  pleasure  that  he  had  added  the  rest. 

The  mention  of  the  Dayntrees,  however,  recalled 
147 


Life  the  Accuser. 

to  her  mind  Constantia's  announcement  of  her  hus- 
band's probable  visit.  After  old  John  Armstrong's 
claim  of  acquaintanceship  with  Evan,  it  appeared  so 
likely  a  thing  that  they  should  receive  some  call 
from  the  Manor  House,  that  Eliza  said  nothing 
about  her  expectation,  but  the  moment  the  front- 
door bell  rang,  quietly  slipped  out  of  the  drawing- 
room,  and,  as  was  her  habit  when  desiring  to  avoid 
a  social  occasion,  escaped  from  the  house  on  a 
long  evening  ramble.  Towards  ten  o'clock  she 
returned  home,  and  hurried  up  the  stairs  straight 
to  her  bedroom.  Her  face  was  very  pale  and  a 
little  drawn,  and  there  was  a  strained  startled  look 
in  her  eyes.  Sylvia's  bedroom  was  empty,  and  the 
lights  were  turned  low ;  she  closed  the  door  be- 
tween, and  sat  down  to  think.  Her  condition  was 
one  peculiar  to  her  nature.  On  the  one  hand  was 
the  stultifying  effect  of  her  inexperience,  her  inno- 
cence and  self-distrust ;  on  the  other,  there  re- 
mained in  her  mind  a  picture  suspended  between 
reality  and  vision,  the  meaning  of  which  she  could 
not  endure  to  contemplate,  but  upon  which  her 
memory  kept  tenacious  hold  ;  it  was  something  that 
had  struck  upon  her  ken  in  a  place  of  shadows  and 
dim  light,  that  had  come  before  her  as  momentary 
and  passing  phantoms  in  chiaroscuro,  and  yet  had 
conveyed  to  her  mind  only  too  fixed  an  impression 
of  unmistakable  identity. 

She  sat  thinking  of  what  she   had  accidentally 
seen,  in  intense  agitation  of  mind.     Then  she  un- 
148 


Hot  Summer. 

dressed  and  got  into  bed,  and  out  of  pure  exhaus- 
tion fell  into  a  sound  short  sleep,  from  which  she 
was  wakened  by  a  light  in  her  room.  Her  step- 
mother was  there,  standing  by  her  bed,  and  shading 
a  light  with  her  hand ;  from  Sylvia's  half-open  door 
streamed  more  light.  Eliza  rose  up  in  bed,  her 
thought  fixed  in  wild  apprehension  upon  the  pic- 
ture with  which  she  had  fallen  asleep.  Mrs.  Arm- 
strong placed  the  candle  on  the  table  near,  and  sat 
down  by  the  bedside.  Eliza  saw  that  the  pale, 
well-chiselled  face,  the  small  well-kept  curls,  the 
air  of  perfection  that  Mrs.  Armstrong  always  carried 
with  her,  were  faintly  ruffled  at  this  moment  by 
excitement. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  murmured,  in  that  half- 
breathed  voice  of  hers,  which  reminded  one  of 
dead  rose-leaves  in  ancient  china. 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Eliza;  "did— did — Mr. 
Dayntree  stay  long?" 

"What  did  you  say,  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Arm- 
strong, wonderingly. 

"  I  heard  some  one  in  the  drawing-room  besides 
Cousin  John  when  I  came  back  from  a  walk.  It 
was  Mr.  Dayntree,  mother  ?  " 

She  unconsciously  clasped  her  hands,  as  though 
in  entreaty. 

"  Mr.  Dixon's  voice,"  said  Mrs.  Armstrong,  smil- 
ing a  little. 

"  No  !  Mr.  Dayntree's.  When  did  he  come  ? 
When  did  he  leave?" 

149 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Mrs.  Armstrong's  expression  changed  first  to  sur- 
prised annoyance,  then  to  alarm.  She  stretched 
her  hand  and  laid  a  finger  on  Eliza's  wrist.  The 
pulse  was  certainly  leaping. 

"  Does  this  indicate  illness  ? "  murmured  she, 
rapidly  and  anxiously.  "  Oh,  Eliza !  and  with  your 
dear  father  stretched  on  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  the 
house  already  upset !  " 

"  I  'm  not  ill,"  exclaimed  Eliza.  "Mr.  Dayntree 
was  expected.  Did  he  stay  long?  " 

"  '  Mr.  Dayntree ' !  Are  you  delirious  ?  He 
has  not  been  here  at  all.  No  one  expected  him. 
Mr.  Dixon  has  been  here.  Surely  you  knew?  " 

Eliza  gazed  at  her  step-mother  like  a  wild  thing. 

"  Surely  you  have  remarked  Mr.  Dixon's  atten- 
tions to  your  aunt?"  continued  Mrs.  Armstrong, 
her  mind  full  of  her  event,  while  Eliza's  as  tena- 
ciously clung  to  its  own.  "  To-night  he  made  her 
an  offer.  It  was  what  we  expected.  He  tells  us 
that  it  has  been  a  long  and  serious  attachment.  He 
has  left  the  house  the  happiest  of  men. " 


150 


Hot  Summer. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IT  was  Eliza's  turn  to  read  her  father  the  morn- 
ing Psalm.  She  hovered  on  the  threshold  of  the 
drawing-room  first,  and  saw  old  John  sitting  there ; 
the  cool  airs  blew  through  the  windows,  and  he 
was  tranquilly  reading. 

On  the  landing  was  Edward  standing  at  his  bed- 
room door,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  a  frown 
on  his  brow.  Circumstance  was  an  ass  to  him,  and, 
like  Balaam,  he  had  no  further  wisdom  than  to 
goad  it.  Seeing  Eliza,  he  came  forward  with  a 
smile. 

"  Going  in  to  see  dad?"  said  he.  "Look  here, 
Eliza.  I  want  to  talk  to  dad." 

"  I  have  to  read  the  Psalm." 

"  All  right,  I'll  come  too.  I  '11  talk  to  him  after- 
wards. I  want  you  to  be  there  and  to  hear  what 
I  say.  Is  the  Psalm  long?" 

"  I  could  choose  '  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd/  " 

u  Yes ;  choose  that.  We  Ve  only  a  short  time. 
I  don't  know  why  he  has  brought  old  Armstrong 
here.  I  must  see  father  first." 

Eliza  nodded.  They  approached  the  door  to- 
gether. At  an  earlier  date  it  would  have  pleased 


Life  the  Accuser. 

her  to  be  in  any  confidence  with  Edward ;  last 
night's  event,  however,  had  shaken  and  quickened 
her  mind ;  she  had  not  understood  it,  but  her  moral 
feeling  was  in  arms  against  it ;  and  it  had  left  her 
this  morning,  not  in  a  suspicious  but  in  an  open- 
eyed  frame.  She  hated  intrigue  with  all  the  strength 
of  her  candid  nature,  and  with  the  peculiar  quality 
of  her  intellect.  Something,  she  hardly  knew  what, 
set  her  now  on  her  guard ;  Edward  felt  provoked 
at  the  quiet  indifference  of  her  profile  as  she  turned 
the  handle.  He  wanted  an  enthusiastic  tool. 

"Mind you  listen,"  said  he,  plucking  her  by  the 
elbow. 

The  old  man,  wrapped  in  blankets  and  supported 
by  pillows,  sat  in  an  invalid  chair  by  the  open  win- 
dow. He  had  insisted  upon  rising  from  his  bed. 
The  Bible  and  Smiles's  "  Self-Help  "  lay  on  the  table 
by  his  side  as  before. 

Eliza  came  to  the  window  and  touched  his  fore- 
head with  her  lips. 

"  Shall  I  read  the  Psalm  ?  "  said  she. 

His  face  softened  at  her  voice. 

"Shall  I  read  'The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd'?" 
Edward  has  come  too." 

Edward  took  a  chair  a  little  in  the  background 
in  the  shadow  of  the  bed  curtain.  Eliza,  opposite 
her  father  by  the  window,  with  the  light  on  her  hair 
and  cheek,  read  about  the  "  green  pastures  "  and 
"still  waters,"  and  the  soul  that  is  led.  The  old 
man  sat  motionless,  listening;  his  ear  loved  the 


Hot  Summer. 

fine  English,  his  memory  travelled  back  on  the 
sound  to  the  early  days  when  his  mother,  a  woman 
of  the  artisan  classes,  traced  the  printed  lines  with 
her  work-roughened  finger,  and  murmured  the 
words  to  him  as  one  croons  a  lullaby.  He  heard 
his  own  child's  voice  halt  after,  he  felt  the  texture 
of  her  cotton  gown,  and  he  heard  the  swing  of  the 
pendulum  in  the  eight-day  clock,  and  the  rolling 
of  the  wooden  cradle  which  she  rocked  with  her 
foot. 

"7  shall  not  want"  he  repeated,  when  Eliza's 
voice  ceased. 

Enclosed  though  it  might  be  by  hazy  religious 
emotion,  the  heart  of  the  promise  held  a  more 
definite  assurance  to  his  ear,  and  his  mind  lifted 
itself  unconsciously  on  a  tidal  hope  that  the  value 
of  mine  shares  was  still  rising. 

A  vague  terror  of  circumstance  had  haunted  him 
all  his  life,  and  he  had  banked  up  riches  and  slip- 
pery deeds  against  it.  A  similar  terror,  yet  a 
meaner,  —  the  fear  lest  the  biggest  share  should  not 
fall  to  himself,  —  shook  Edward's  face  now  as  he 
peered  round  the  curtains  in  anxious  watchfulness. 
From  below  came  the  sound  of  an  opening  door : 
old  John  might  even  now  be  mounting  the  stairs, 
and  his  presence  would  put  a  period  to  the  oppor- 
tunity. The  cool  strong  face  and  resolute  slow 
manner  seemed  to  Edward  to  threaten  his  personal 
interests  more  than  anything  he  had  ever  met  with. 
Once  more  he  urged  the  ass  he  rode. 
153 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Old  John  Armstrong  is  coming  to  see  you, 
father.  I  wanted  just  to  say  a  word  before  you 
see  him." 

"Hey?" 

"  I  want  you  just  to  carry  your  mind  back  to  a 
conversation  we  had  the  other  morning." 

He  paused.  The  face  by  the  window  had  that 
shut,  impenetrable  look  he  dreaded. 

"  You  seemed  to  wish  me  —  in  the  case  of  a 
division  of  the  property,  which  I  sincerely  hope  is 
far  distant  —  you  seemed  to  wish  me  to  undertake 
as  my  share,  and  of  course  my  responsibility,  the 
'  Sherman's  Reward  '  mines." 

There  was  no  response,  but  he  was  convinced 
from  certain  facial  signs  that  his  father  heard. 

"  I  just  wanted  you  to  tell  me  again  clearly  that 
you  desired  me  to  take  the  '  Sherman's  Reward ' 
mines  in  Western  Australia  as  my  share." 

His  father's  hand  moved  faintly  over  the  blan- 
kets. The  foot  of  old  John  was  even  now  upon 
the  stair. 

"  Did  you  not  say,  father,"  urged  Balaam,  "  that 
you  wished  me  to  have  the  mines  —  the  whole  of 
the  '  Sherman's  Reward '  mines  —  as  my  share  ?  " 

"  So  I  said.'7 

"  That  was  your  wish  as  regards  me  ?  " 

"  So  I  said." 

The  handle  of  the  door  turned,  and  Mrs.  Arm- 
strong, looking  in,  beckoned  to  Edward  and  Eliza 
to  withdraw. 


Hot  Summer. 

Old  John,  his  hands  linked  behind  him,  walked 
across  the  big  and  handsome  room,  his  attention 
quietly  bent  on  the -figure  by  the  window.  Old 
Sam's  eyes  started  wide-open  at  the  sound  of  his 
cousin's  step,  and  they  followed  him  in  speechless 
emotion  as  he  walked  through  the  room,  and  took  a 
chair  by  the  window  opposite.  The  look  was  of 
that  suspended  alarm  which  human  eyes  wear  when 
the  situation  is  strange  and  the  power  of  calculation 
at  fault. 

Old  John  quietly  seated  himself  by  the  window 
opposite  his  cousin.  Neither  spoke  ;  each  had  his 
memory.  It  was  forty  years  and  more  old  now, 
but  it  lived  like  a  rat  still  at  the  bottom  of  old  Sam's 
heart,  and  slumbered  like  a  passionate  grief  trans- 
figured to  patience  in  old  John's. 

The  deed  was  not  one  amenable  to  man's  law, 
or  even  to  the  scourge  of  public  opinion.  It  had 
the  quality  of  a  deeper  blackness.  It  had  happened 
in  the  early  thirties,  and  was  described  in  the  press 
at  the  time  as  an  event  under  the  heading  of  "  The 
Harebarrow  Strike."  Old  John  had  in  his  room 
at  home  a  set  of  worn  and  faded  extracts  from  the 
"  Workman's  Dawn  o'  Day,"  pasted  on  cardboard 
and  attached  to  his  wall  by  four  small  nails ;  these 
extracts  gave  the  bald  recital  of  the  event ;  there 
were  certain  gaps  which  the  memories  of  the  two 
cousins  supplied.  According  to  the  press  account, 
the  collapse  of  the  perfectly  justified  and  well- 
planned  Harebarrow  manoeuvre  was  owing  chiefly 


Life  the  Accuser. 

to  some  information  having  been  inexplicably  con- 
veyed to  the  police  beforehand ;  the  result  had 
been  a  seizure  of  two  of  the,  leaders  for  imprison- 
ment in  gaol,  violence  from  the  disaffected  opera- 
tives, and  bloodshed  from  the  defenders  of  a  certain 
mill.  But  the  thing  which  was  not  recorded  in  the 
extracts  mouldering  on  "  Union  John's  "  bedroom 
walls  was  what  burned  most  in  the  memory.  When 
"  Union  John "  came  out  of  gaol,  and  walked 
through  the  Clough  of  Harebarrow  for  the  last  time 
on  his  way  into  exile,  he  learned  that  his  cousin  and 
trusted  associate  had  been  promoted  by  his  distant 
kinsman,  the  detested  and  unjust  master,  and  was 
fairly  on  the  way  to  a  probable  partnership.  More 
than  forty  years  lay  between  the  poignant  agony  of 
that  moment  and  this. 

"  You  're  changed,  John,"  said  old  Mr.  Arm- 
strong, when  he  had  moistened  his  lips  once  or 
twice  and  gazed  into  the  mild,  steady  eyes  before 
him,  as  he  never  could  into  Edward's ;  "  now,  I 
doubt  I  'm  done." 

John  passed  his  hand  slowly  over  his  mouth  and 
chin,  and  said  nothing. 

"  How  's  the  '  Grand  National '  going  now  ?  " 
asked  Sam,  presently. 

"  It  perished,"  returned  John,  "  towards  the  end 

of '34." 

"Dead,  is  it?"  He  knew  it.  It  was  old,  old 
news,  which  he  had  heard  forty  years  back  and 
more.  But  then,  he  had  never  heard  it  from  Sam's 

156 


Hot  Summer. 

lips.  It  sounded  something  new  from  them,  and 
he  spoke  quite  briskly.  Again,  John  had  nothing 
to  add. 

"You  remember  old  Theophilus?"  jerked  out 
old  Sam  once  more,  after  the  pause. 

"  I  had  to  deal  in  his  4  Tommy '  shop  too  long 
not  to  have  a  lively  recollection  of  him,"  said  John, 
drily. 

"  He  was  the  father  of  lies,"  said  Sam. 

"  So  you  think  so  now?"  said  John,  gently. 

Old  Sam  —  his  white  hair  on  the  fine  white  pillow 
—  slowly  inclined  his  head.  The  years  lay  before 
him  as  a  map. 

"  It 's  a  queer  thought  —  at  times/'*  said  he,  "  the 
road  one  might  have  gone  by  and  missed.'7 

"  Just  so/'  said  John. 

"  It 's  a  queer  sort  of  notion  what  would  have 
happened  if  we  'd  decided  on  some  other  plan  than 
the  one  we  took." 

"That's  so,  Sam." 

"  Blest  if  I  can  get  a  bit  of  comfortable  sleep 
without  my  mind  setting  off  of  itself  and  creeping 
back  to  that  particular  corner.  And  yet  I  've 
prospered." 

He  waved  his  hand  round  to  indicate  the  hand- 
some room. 

"You've  got  it  in  mahogany?  Yes,"  said  old 
John. 

"  And  mine  shares,  and  railway  stock,  and  land, 
and  what  not !  " 

157 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"Yes." 

"  And  a  position  in  the  county/'  he  added, 
quoting  from  Edward. 

"  Aye.  Thou  wed  owd  Theophilus'  lass  o' 
Plarebarrow  Clough,"  said  John,  with  a  gentle 
smile  of  humour,  and  taking  the  vernacular  to  salve 
the  offence. 

"  How  's  that  fellow  Rayner  now?"  asked  Sam, 
presently  changing  the  topic. 

"  Rayner?  Did  n't  he  go  out  like  a  puff  of  smoke 
at  last?"  returned  John. 

"  Well,  I  think  he  did.  He  was  a  chap  to  be  up 
and  down  again  like  a  rocket.  He  'd  used  to  sell 
us  a  tub  or  two  of  oil  for  the  Harebarrow  Clough 
mills,  and  was  glad  to  be  in  our  debt  for  a  five- 
pound  note.  And  then  he  got  up  that  big  cotton 
corner.  Recollect  it,  John?" 

"  I  was  out  of  cotton  then,  you  know." 

"  Still  he  did  —  set  'change  on  a  flare,  and 
strutted  about  for  a  bit  like  a  cock  on  a  dung-hill. 
He  made  a  million  of  money.  He  was  in  every- 
body's mouth.  And  then  he  must  needs  go  and 
try  it  on  again,  and  miscalculate.  Oil-tubs  and 
five-pound  debts  even  were  too  big  for  him  after 
that." 

"  A  cock  on  a  dung-hill  —  that 's  so." 

"  He  was  a  warning  to  me,  John,"  said  old  Sam, 
shaking  his  head  ;  "  and  yet  I  Ve  gone  safe.  I  've 
gone  safe." 

"  Yes,"  said  old  John. 

158 


Hot  Summer. 

"  I  Ve  been  no  speculator  like  Rayner.  I  Ve 
only  dabbled  in  speculation  once.  It  was  in  '62. 
You  '11  mind  that  year,  John  ?  " 

"  Mind  it?     I  do  so.     The  famine  year." 

Old  Sam  chuckled  faintly  from  the  blankets. 

"  So  they  called  it.  Why  ?  There  was  more 
cotton  in  the  market  those  famine  years  than 
ever  at  any  time  before  or  since.  I  'd  ought  to 
know." 

Again  the  old  fellow  faintly  chuckled. 

"Well?  "said  John. 

"  There  was  Tom  Ramsbottom  —  recollect  Tom, 
with  his  long  crooked  nose  ?  —  once  he  got  hold  of 
his  cotton  he  was  like  a  dog  with  a  bone.  Could  n't 
let  it  go.  He  overreached  himself  and  lost.  But  I 
did  n't.  Mine  prospered.  I  sold  at  the  very  top 
of  the  market.  It  was  Billy  Pilkington  that  bought 
the  bulk  of  the  bales  for  export,  —  the  rest  went  to 
Samuels  and  Willens.  They  got  off  with  a  mod- 
erate loss.  But  Billy,  he  held  on.  You  recollect 
Billy?" 

"  A  man  with  a  little  flat  head  and  a  pair  of  eyes 
wide  apart,  and  a  habit  of  sniffin'  and  wagglin'  his 
head,  and  looking  to  and  fro  like  a  dog  in  search  of 
garbage?  Aye.  I  mind  him." 

"That'll  be  him.  Well,  he  bought  the  bulk  of 
the  cotton,  and  he  held  on  too  well.  Not  but  what 
he  'd  a  tidy  bit  of  money  left.  But  they  kept  him 
at  home  after  that,  and  just  let  him  have  a  shilling 
or  two  in  his  pockets  to  get  drunk  on;  and  they 


Life  the  Accuser. 

kept  him  clean,  and  gave  him  good  clothes,  and  let 
him  hand  the  plate  round  in  church  on  a  Sunday. 
He  seemed  content  enough  for  a  time.  They 
brought  the  railway  past  his  place  not  so  long  after. 
That  was  a  grand  affair  to  Billy.  He  'd  used  to 
go  down  to  the  bit  of  a  station  at  Bowker  Bank  to 
watch  the  morning  train  off,  and  he  }d  shake  his 
stick  at  it,  and  say  '  Hurra  ! '  and  cry.  Oh,  he  was 
very  content,  was  Billy,  till  his  mind  took  worse 
ways,  and  the  drink  did  the  rest.  Then  he  got  that 
maggot  into  his  brain  about  silver.  Thought  there 
was  n't  change  enough  in  all  England  to  meet  his 
liabilities.  And  he  'd  run  about  sniffing  and  wag- 
gling his  head,  and  searching  and  begging  for  six- 
pence here  and  sixpence  there.  He  always  asked 
for  sixpence.  They  found  scores  and  scores  of 
sixpences  in  his  pockets  when  he  died  of  stroke  of 
a  sudden.  He  'd  beg  of  anybody  at  last  —  trades- 
people and  all." 

"That  was  the  man  that  bought  your  cotton, 
was  it?" 

"Yes,  it  was  Billy.  If  I  'd  held  on  I  'd  maybe 
have  been  like  him.  But  I  made  a  fine  thing  out 
of  it." 

Old  Sam  sighed  again. 

"  It  left  me  with  a  touch  of  palsy  in  my  hand," 
he  added. 

John  had  his  hand  over  his  eyes ;  his  heart  in  its 
day  had  wept  tears  of  blood  at  Sam's  desertion. 
From  the  rich  man,  amidst  his  fine  pillows  and 
1 60 


Hot  Summer. 

handsome  curtains,  a  second  thin  weak  sigh  escaped 
after  the  silence ;  it  breathed  the  burden  of  woful 
years,  a  sound  of  the  ghostly  enemy  rather  than 
the  common  earthly  griefs  of  anxious  poverty,  and 
the  struggle  that  is  laid  on  man,  and  sickness,  and  the 
loss  of  friends.  Woe  to  those  who,  to  escape  the 
common  ill,  put  on  the  burden  of  the  ghostly  .enemy, 
and  the  fetters  with  which  he  binds  ! 

"Thou  may  speak,  Sam,"  said  old  John,  softly 
answering  the  eloquence  of  the  sigh. 

"  You  Ve  a  good  heart  to  me?  "  asked  old  Sam, 
feebly. 

«  Yes  —  yes,  lad  !    That 's  so." 

"  I  doubt  I  Ve  missed  it  here  and  there,  John. 
I  'm  troubled  in  my  mind." 

John  bent  his  head  lower,  and  speechlessly  gave 
his  cousin  to  feel  that  he  listened. 

"I'm  confused  at  times,  and  think  that  old 
Theophilus  is  alive." 

"  He  died  twenty  years  back,  Sam." 

"And  if  he'd  died  twenty  years  before,  I  'd  may- 
be have  been  happier.  There  's  a  sight  of  fear  and 
anxiety  when  a  man's  rich." 

"  That 's  so,  maybe." 

"  I  Ve  the  fear  of  leaving  division  and  rage  be- 
hind, and  murmuring  children." 

"  You  Ve  made  your  will,  Sam  ?  " 

"  Lean  forward,  John.  Is  Edward  there  ?  No. 
I  Ve  made  it  right  now.  It 's  what  I  want.  But 
I  'in  confused. 

ii  161 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"One  day  I  saw  that  lad  busy  in  his  room,  his 
lips  muttering  figures,  and  his  brow  too  inward  on 
his  own  thought  to  note  me.  '  Say  two  hundred 
thousand,  and  divide  by  five  —  no,  four,'  says  he. 
I  'd  ever  been  chary  of  trusting  my  own  :  I  'd  ever 
kept  my  lips  locked  on  my  affairs.  And  I  knew 
what  he  was  at.  It  went  like  a  sword  to  my  heart, 
already  sore  with  the  world's  combat,  and  heaping 
up  riches.  The  lad  was  dividing  my  property  while 
life  was  still  hale  in  me.  And  when  he  was  gone,  I 
slipped  in  and  took  the  paper  he  'd  scribbled  his 
make-believe  figures  on ;  and  I  saw  a  fool's  brain, 
and  a  spendthrift's,  and  a  heartless  lad's,  that  says 
of  his  father,  'It  is  a  gift,'  and  counts  his  mother 
and  sisters  as  robbers  from  himself,  and  a  brother 
as  a  diminisher  of  his  own  fortune.  And  the  old 
fear  ran  like  a  rat  through  my  mind,  for  I  thought 
I  saw  old  Theophilus  again.  And  I  sent  for  a  man 
I  can  trust,  and  opened  my  wish  to  him.  And  I 
made  a  new  will." 

"  It 's  a  sore  fear  for  a  man  on  his  deathbed/' 
said  John. 

"  Ay  !  and  I  doubt  —  I  'm  afraid  of  betraying  my- 
self again.  My  lad  Edward  was  the  apple  of  my 
eye.  I  see  him  still  a  mite  in  a  white  frock  and 
pinny  with  a  yellow  curl  on  top  his  head  toddling 
to  his  mother's  arms  —  her  as  died,  John,  I  mean. 
And  my  heart  goes  weak " 

He  fixed  his  eyes  mournfully  on  the  garden  land- 
scape, a  look  of  confusion  and  perplexity  harassed 
162 


Hot  Summer. 

his  face,  and  the  thin  tormented  sigh  escaped  him 
again. 

"  An  apple  of  Sodom,  John/'  murmured  he  ;  "  it 's 
a  burden.  I  doubt  I  'm  leaving  treachery,  and 
strife,  and  division,  and  the  melting  away  of  money 
behind  me.  And  I  doubt " 

His  mind,  searching  within  himself  after  one 
strong,  clear  deed,  could  not  assure  itself  that  some- 
how he  had  not  betrayed  his  own  intention  to  be 
just ;  the  smile  of  old  Theophilus  caught  his  mem- 
ory in  hate  and  dread ;  he  made  an  effort  to  recall 
his  own  action  to  assure  himself  of  straight,  firm 
dealing  ;  but  his  mind  tottered  and  failed  ;  the  thin 
tormented  sigh  escaped  him  again,  and  he  closed 
his  eyes.  He  was  ever  a  man  with  a  forked  road 
in  his  mind. 

Old  John  rose  hastily  from  his  seat,  and  leaned 
over  him ;  he  saw  a  shadow  on  the  face  that  was 
unlike  anything  belonging  to  life.  And  in  his  own 
heart  was  a  yearning  affection  that  no  memory  of  be- 
trayal, no  division  of  years  could  uproot.  He  took  the 
thin  worn  hand  tenderly  in  his  own,  and  spoke  to  the 
fading  sense  of  the  ear  in  the  old  vernacular. 

"  Sam,  lad  !  "  cried  he  ;  "it 's  John,  thou  knows. 
John  is  with  thee  !  " 

The  lids  faintly  moved,  and  a  gleam  of  joy  shone 
dimly  between  them. 

"  Aye,  John  lad  !  "  said  old  Sam ;  "  I  'm  very  fain." 

Next  morning  the  old  man  passed  gently  away. 


Life  the  Accuser. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  THE  COURT  "  was  a  house  of  decorous  mourn- 
ing, the  simple  figure  of  undivided  grief  being  that 
.of  old  John. 

Mrs.  Armstrong,  cold,  impressive,  draped  in  heavy 
weeds,  seemed  acting  a  part  in  a  solemn  drama. 
Aunt  Caroline,  elegantly  black,  moved  in  mourning 
under  protest. 

"  Why,"  she  asked  of  Mr.  Dixon,  who,  ceremoni- 
ous to  his  finger-tips,  was  present  out  of  courtesy, 
"  cannot  we  return  to  simplicity  in  these  days  ?  A 
wicker  basket  carried  cheerfully  to  the  grave,  or 
subjected  to  the  sanitary  process  of  the  furnace,  an 
indifferent  demeanour  in  face  of  the  inevitable  and 
natural  —  such  is  my  ideal." 

At  the  open  grave,  attention  to  the  service  and 
the  occasion  could  not  entirely  prevail  with  Edward 
against  his  habit  of  casting  up  sums.  His  fancy, 
caught  away  from  the  finish  of  life  in  this  "  earth  to 
earth  "  ceremony,  sent  him  in  imagination  swagger- 
ing with  a  bit  of  careless  information  to  an  admir- 
ing acquaintance. 

"  My  father's  fortune  totted  up  to  a  cool  two 
hundred  thousand,  you  know.  We  did  n't  live  up 
164 


Hot  Summer. 

to  it,  I  allow.  But  ostentation  wasn't  old  dad's 
form." 

Meanwhile  every  moment  brought  him  nearer 
the  ambush  where  lay  brutal  reality  with  his  rapier 
point. 

The  will  of  the  late  Samuel  Armstrong  proved 
when  read  to  be  simple.  Norman  Dayntree  was 
left  sole  executor  of  his  fortune,  and,  subject  to  a 
small  complimentary  legacy  to  himself,  the  whole 
was  to  be  divided  between  Isabella,  wife  to  Samuel 
Armstrong,  and  Edward,  Gilbert,  Eliza,  and  Sylvia, 
children  of  the  same,  according  as  the  discretion  of 
the  executor  should  dictate ;  nor  were  the  persons 
interested  to  have  power  to  dispute  his  ruling.  By 
such  an  eccentric  testament  had  the  old  man  thought 
to  put  a  period  to  the  inherent  tendency  of  human 
nature  to  fight  over  booty.  The  fortune  when 
realised  would  probably  mount  up  to  eighty  thou- 
sand pounds. 

"  Your  father,  Mr.  Edward,"  said  the  lawyer,  in 
reply  to  his  incoherent  exclamations,  "  never,  that 
I  know  of,  claimed  to  be  an  extraordinarily  rich 
man." 

The  bitterness  of  the  observation  lay  in  its  truth. 

Not  many  days  later,  Eliza  found  herself  listening 
to  the  tutoring  of  Edward  as  she  unwillingly  accom- 
panied him  in  the  direction  of  the  Manor  House. 

"  Now,  Eliza,"  ran  the  warning,  "  you  have  got 
to  collect  your  senses.  This  is  an  extremely  impor- 
tant matter.  It  touches  the  good  of  the  family." 

'65 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Eliza's  mouth  was  ominously  set.  It  exasperated 
Edward  beyond  words  that  her  face  refused  to 
spring  any  eager  looks  of  sacrifice  by  which  to  meet 
his  demands.  The  days  between  their  father's 
funeral  and  this  walk  had  not  been  pleasant  to  any 
of  them  ;  there  had  been  sensitive  tears  from  Sylvia, 
whispered  conclaves  between  her  step-mother  and 
aunt,  and  scowls  between  the  two  brothers.  Eliza 
had  kept  as  far  as  possible  aloof  and  silent ;  her 
occasion  for  trouble  was  peculiarly  her  own,  and 
extinguished  lesser  details.  In  other  matters  besides 
this  of  the  family  property,  her  judgment  was  feel- 
ing its  way  towards  emancipation  and  efficiency. 

Norman  received  his  guests  in  his  study.  His 
own  position  was  eminently  distasteful  to  himself,  but 
Constantia's  wish  upheld  him.  It  was  a  cool  and 
pleasant  room  into  which  the  brother  and  sister 
entered,  and  Mr.  Dayntree's  courteous  though  reti- 
cent demeanour  convinced  Edward  that  suavity  not 
bluster  was  his  cue.  It  was,  however,  little  to  his 
mind  to  find  that  Mr.  Dayntree  was  not  alone. 
Upon  their  entering  the  room,  a  young  man  came 
forward  and  shook  hands  cordially  with  Eliza.  He 
had  been  sitting  in  a  retired  corner,  and  had  a  book 
in  his  hand.  Edward  recognised  him  as  the  "  work- 
man "  whom  he  had  met  in  old  John  Armstrong's 
company. 

"  Ah,  Evan  !  You  are  there,  to  be  sure,"  exclaimed 
Norman,  with  satisfaction ;  "  these  are  Armstrong's 
young  cousins.  My  relative,"  he  continued,  dis- 
166 


Hot  Summer. 

tributing  his  words  between  Eliza  and  Edward, 
"  has  been  residing  in  the  same  town  with  Mr.  John 
Armstrong,  and  has  found  a  valued  friend  in  him. 
No,  Evan  !  Don't  go  ;  sit  down." 

The  tones  of  the  last  words  were  insistent.  Evan 
turned  and  re-seated  himself  by  a  corner  window* 
and  re-opened  his  book. 

To  make  a  plausible  and  telling  speech  was  not 
difficult  to  Edward.  He  began  by  stating  that  his 
father  had  desired  to  keep  up  the  family  name  by 
handing  to  one  of  their  number  —  to  himself,  in 
short,  as  natural  protector  —  enough  to  carry  on  a 
general  home,  such  a  place  for  example  as  <c  The 
Court,"  to  which  they  could  point  as  evidence  of 
position  and  union.  He  was  sure  not  only  of  what 
his  father's  wishes  were  in  the  matter,  but  also  of 
the  extent  to  which  he  desired  to  endow  him  ;  since 
shortly  before  his  death  his  father  had  informed  him 
that  the  whole  of  the  Sherman's  Reward  Mines  (the 
value  of  which  he  might  say  he  was  ignorant  of) 
were  designed  for  him  for  this  purpose. 

In  this  plausible  manner,  truth  interwoven  with 
falsehood,  Edward  came  at  his  request.  Norman 
listened  quietly.  How  far  Edward  believed  in  his 
own  word-spinning  is  a  nice  but  insoluble  question  ; 
probably  he  was  his  own  first  dupe,  for  a  mind  is 
usually  thoroughly  tainted  by  its  own  sophistry  be- 
fore it  attempts  to  spread  the  disease  to  another. 
Norman,  however,  was  not  likely  to  be  detained  by 
such  arguments  when  the  broad  issue  was  evident. 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  My  dear  fellow/'  said  he,  not  without  a  twinkle 
in  his  eyes,  "this  is  all  very  well.  But  how  should 
1  be  fulfilling  my  office  to  the  remainder  of  the 
family  if  I  began  by  handing  to  a  single  member  a 
portion  of  the  property  which  I  have  just  proved  as 
valuing  fully  one-half  of  the  whole  ?  " 

Then  his  father  had  spoken  truth !  Edward 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief;  his  next  step  was  to  call 
upon  Eliza  for  her  evidence.  Here,  however,  en- 
sued a  scene  in  the  last  degree  unexpected.  Eliza, 
who  had  listened  with  downcast  lids,  when  she 
found  herself  referred  to,  was  at  a  loss  only  because 
of  the  excess  of  penetration  with  which  she  read  the 
event.  Norman,  turning  his  head  courteously  when 
Edward  demanded  her  speech,  knew  not  whether 
to  smile  or  to  become  graver  when  he  saw  himself 
confronted  by  an  eye  of  fire. 

"  I  am  asked  —  did  my  father  give  Edward  the 
nine  shares?  Well,  Mr.  Dayntree,"  said  she,  with 
vigorous  decision,  "  I  suppose  the  bare  letter  of  the 
thing  is  as  he  says.  I  heard  my  brother  harry  my 
father  on  his  death-bed  with  a  question  as  to 
whether  or  not  he  had  given  him  the  mines,  the 
whole  mines,  as  his  share.  And  my  father  answered 
twice  over :  '  So  I  said  —  so  I  said.'  That  is  all 
that  passed  in  my  hearing.  Edward,  whether  Mr. 
Dayntree  will  give  you  the  mines  I  do  not  know, 
and  I  am  sure  that  I  do  not  care.  But  this  I  am 
convinced  of,  —  if  you  get  them,  they  will  not  do 
you  any  good.  Don't  you  see  that  you  will  never 
1 68 


Hot  Summer. 

succeed  —  never,  never  ?  Your  plan  is  false  words, 
and  again  false  words,  and  always  false  words. 
Everything  you  do  and  touch  breaks  off  short 
at  false  words.  There  are  no  true  deeds ;  you 
are  nothing  but  a  bad  dream,  and  like  a  bad 
dream  people  will  put  you  from  them.  You  seek 
yourself ;  you  do  nothing  that  can  by  any  possibility 
hold." 

She  shook  out  her  deliberated  judgment  in  an 
astonishing  jumble ;  her  tactics  were  confused,  her 
speech  sounded  far  from  the  mark. 

"  Good  Lord  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Dayntree,  lean- 
ing back  in  his  chair,  while  Edward,  beside  himself 
with  amazement,  stared  at  the  white  face,  the  flash- 
ing eyes,  the  inspired  posture,  and  heard  the  in- 
credible echoes  of  the  denunciation  against  himself. 

Evan's  book  shut  with  a  snap  as  the  girl  sank 
back  to  her  seat  after  the  outburst.  In  an  instant 
he  was  by  her  side,  and,  stooping  low  so  as  to  bring 
the  command  of  his  kind  brown  eyes  to  her  aid, 
lightly  touched  her  hand.  She  found  herself  — 
hardly  knowing  how  it  happened  —  invited  from 
the  room  and  that  without  ignominy;  and  almost 
before  she  had  understood  his  intention  he  had  led 
her  across  the  hall,  and  they  were  standing  by  the 
door  of  the  drawing-room. 

"Constantia  is  in  here/'  said  he;  "won't  you 
like  to  see  her?" 

How  little  he  apprehended  the  situation  !  He 
was  but  thrusting  her  upon  a  new  dilemma.  She 
169 


Life  the  Accuser. 

shrank  back,  casting  a  nervous  beseeching  glance 
towards  him. 

"  I  am  not  fit,"  she  murmured  confusedly. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  won't  it  be  best  ? "  said  he,  per- 
suasively. 

Eliza  hesitated.  Her  knowledge  stood  out  as 
something  strong  and  black  that  overpowered  every 
other  idea ;  her  mind  seemed  like  a  rocking  boat 
in  its  perplexity. 

"  Come  now  !  "  said  he,  kindly.  "  I  feel  sure  in 
bringing  you  to  Constantia  I  have  done  the  best  for 
you."  His  fingers  still  rested  on  the  handle. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Eliza,  gloomily.  "  You  can 
open.  But  if  I  go  in  I  shall  regret  it." 

The  handle  turned,  and  the  door  closed  upon  her 
and  her  vague  words  and  confusion.  Constantia 
came  forward  in  her  most  affectionate  manner. 
Her  maternal  feeling  was  moved  by  the  aspect  of 
the  girl  in  her  mourning  and  with  her  strange  dis- 
tracted air.  Eliza  began  to  shiver  and  tremble 
when  she  felt  her  friend's  hands  laid  upon  her ;  a 
kind  of  weakness  seized  her ;  the  prevision  so  com- 
mon to  her  showed  the  event  of  this  meeting  in 
disaster.  The  direct  road  of  sheer  right-doing, 
unrelieved,  unsoftened  by  those  tender  undulations 
and  windings  which  supreme  discretion  creates,  was 
the  only  one  possible  to  her  ignorance. 

"Did  you  know  that  I  called,  Eliza?  I  have 
thought  of  you  so  much.  Why  did  you  not  come 
before?" 

170 


Hot  Summer. 

Constantia's  kindness  merely  made  that  over- 
clouding thought  the  heavier.  She  said  nothing, 
but,  accompanying  her  friend  across  the  room,  sat 
down  as  directed. 

"Are  you  here  alone?  I  thought  I  heard 
voices." 

"  I  am  not  alone.  Edward  is  here.  Constantia, 
all  life  is  broken  up.  I  thought  it  a  hard  thing  to 
be  alive  before.  But  now  there  is  nothing  to 
believe  in." 

"  Dear  !  You  have  lost  your  father."  She  mar- 
velled a  little  that  the  passing  of  old  Mr.  Armstrong 
should  leave  such  a  sense  of  wreck  in  his  daughter's 
mind. 

"  That  is  bad,  —  but  not  so  bad.  One  expects 
to  lose  one's  father.  It  is  the  unexpected  —  the 
startling  in  life  that  is  so  bad." 

"  You  have  found  —  perhaps  under  the  altered 
circumstances " 

Constantia  with  her  mind  on  Edward  sympathised 
but  hesitated. 

"  Yes,"  said  Eliza.  "  I  have  read  Edward  through 
and  through.  There  is  no  one  in  this  world  upon 
whom  I  can  rely." 

"  Surely  !  "  said  Constantia.  Her  thought  reverted 
to  the  strong  ally  she  had  secured  for  the  girl  in  her 
own  husband. 

"  I  see  too  much,"  said  Eliza,  stupidly. 

"  Eliza  dear  !  Norman  is  left  executor,  I  know. 
I  am  sure  that  in  your  and  Sylvia's  case  he  will  act 
171 


Life  the  Accuser. 

almost  as  guardian  should  you  wish  it.  You  are 
both  so  young.  I  am  sure  he  will  do  anything.  Do 
come  to  him  if  you  are  in  trouble." 

Eliza  shook  her  head  with  a  shudder.  Constantia 
patted  her  hand. 

"You  have  not  quarrelled  with  him  already?" 
said  she,  smiling  at  the  notion  that  one  so  strong 
as  Norman  should  resent  the  irritable  humours  of  a 
girl. 

Two  slow  tears  rolled  down  Eliza's  cheeks.  The 
smile  of  Constantia  in  face  of  her  knowledge  was 
frightful.  Not  the  least  part  of  her,  anguish  was  the 
feeling  that  the  knowledge  was  in  itself  a  kind  of  injury 
to  Constantia.  And  yet  so  incomplete  was  the  work- 
ing of  her  mind,  so  great  her  girlish  ignorance,  that 
she  did  not  grasp  the  precise  nature  of  the  facts  she 
had  discovered,  nor  the  full  significance  of  them  to 
Norman's  wife. 

"  Come  tell  me,"  said  Constantia. 

Eliza  turned  her  sorrowful  eyes  on  her  friend. 

"Must  I  do  so?" 

"  Why  !  of  course  if  it  will  ease  you." 

"  I  must  tell  you,  but  not  because  it  will  ease  me. 
It  is  as  though  I  was  going  to  strike  you.  The 
most  dreadful  part  of  all  is  that  Mr.  Dayntree 
has  been  left  executor.  For  you  see  I  do  not  — 
cannot " 

She  broke  off  with  a  wild  look  ;  she  caught  Con- 
stantia's  proud,  amused  smile.  It  shook  words 
from  her ;  and  in  her  attempt  to  soften  the  blow  to 
172 


Hot  Summer. 

her  friend  she  threw  forward  the  least  part  of  the 
matter  —  the  injury  to  herself. 

"  Why  does  he  rob  me  of  Rosalie  ?  "  she  asked. 

And  by  that  "  robbery  "  she  meant  the  spiritual 
loss  —  the  flitching  of  her  friend's  allegiance  from 
the  same  sense  of  right  and  wrong  as  hers.  But 
Constantia  drew  back  with  a  pained  repulsing 
look. 

"  Eliza  !  what  can  be  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  cried 
she,  reading  in  the  words  nothing  but  the  suggestion 
of  evil,  jealous  feeling  which  certainly  lay  upon  the 
surface. 

"  Grief  is  the  matter  with  me,"  said  Eliza  ;  "  fear 
too.  I  don't  understand.  Why  does  Mr.  Dayntree 
meet  Rosalie  secretly  at  nights?  Why  does  he 
tell  you  he  is  coming  to  us,  and  then  go  there? 
Why " 

It  was  simply  consistent  with  human  nature  that 
the  injured  wife  should  strike  first  at  the  girl  who 
was  doing  her  best  to  save  her.  Nothing  was  said, 
but  Eliza  broke  off.  The  very  atmosphere  of  the 
room  was  full  of  warning.  She  had  not  looked,  yet 
knew  that  Constantia  had  moved  ;  and  raising  her 
eyes  from  her  own  concentrated  sense  of  adverse 
things  in  a  sunless  world,  now  glanced  towards  her. 
Constantia  was  standing  by  the  mantel-piece,  her 
face  averted  and  yet  partially  visible.  Eliza  with 
her  swift  sight  read  it  only  too  clearly.  There 
was  no  need  of  words.  Constantia's  mind  had 
wholly  rejected  the  warning,  had  never  even  been 
173 


Life  the  Accuser. 

touched  by  it ;  the  arrow  had  returned  upon  herself; 
she  was  not  the  least  believed. 

"  Oh,  Eliza,"  murmured  Constantia,  faintly,  "  I 
am  inexpressibly  shocked.  I  could  not  have  be- 
lieved you  had  so  much  wickedness  in  you.'* 

"I  —  I  —  meant  to  warn  you,"  faltered  the  girl, 
struck  to  the  heart  by  Constantia's  irreconcilable 
demeanour ;  "  be  warned.  I  am  sure  that  some- 
thing is  wrong." 

"  Don't  —  don't  say  a  word  more.  I  am  not  able 
to  bear  the  sight  and  hearing  of  such  wickedness. 
Nothing  but  my  own  senses  would  have  brought  me 
to  believe  it  of  you.  I  am  sorry.  But  —  you  — 
you  —  had  better  go." 

The  girl  rose  and  looked  penetratingly  at  the 
figure  of  her  friend.  Not  a  falter  of  doubt  ran 
through  Constantia's  mind,  and  her  bearing  and 
partially  averted  face  were  written  all  over  with 
evidences  of  her  mental  attitude,  neither  was  there 
a  trace  of  the  culprit  in  Eliza's  manner.  She 
merely  breathed  a  deep  sigh,  and  left  as  she  was 
directed. 

Nothing  can  play  the  part  of  unjust  judge  so  well 
as  personal  affection  and  family  pride.  But  indeed 
it  had  been  a  poor  tribute  to  Constantia's  capacity 
for  faithful  and  trustful  love  —  and  the  capacity  for 
trust  demands  qualities  no  less  strenuous  than  faith- 
fulness —  to  have  listened  to  the  warning  conveyed 
to  her  at  once.  Ready  unbelief  would  have  been 
treachery.  Our  virtues  at  the  best  are  hedged  by 


Hot  Summer. 

imperfection,  and  love  itself  has  need  of  its  own 
partiality  and  extravagance  to  shelter  it  from  its 
reverses.  Nor  could  an  after-knowledge  that  Eliza's 
warning,  promptly  accepted,  might  have  saved 
them  all  from  the  chiefest  part  of  the  disaster,  have 
made  her  regret  her  first  passion  of  proud,  unques- 
tioning, clear-eyed  trust.  We  are  but  able  to  throw 
into  the  moment  the  best  we  are  momentarily 
capable  of  j  and  it  is  as  we  grow  in  the  sad  wisdom 
and  experience  of  life  that  we  come  to  see  that 
even  our  virtues  and  truest  affections  play  a 
double  part  in  this  mingled  and  melancholy  drama 
of  existence. 

Meanwhile  Eliza  had  left  the  house.  She  had  no 
heart  to  encourage  herself  by  any  reference  to  the 
purity  of  her  motives;  but  her  intellect  steadily 
refused  to  resign  its  hold  on  facts.  This  faithful- 
ness to  her  own  conclusions  gave  the  touch  of 
grandeur  to  a  character  which  might  otherwise, 
through  misfortune,  self-distrust,  and  over-affection- 
ateness,  have  sunk  into  prostration  and  weakness. 
As  it  was,  she  went  out  into  a  still  more  darkened 
world  —  a  world  full  of  the  loss  of  friends  —  carry- 
ing her  own  burden  and  unconvicted  by  her  own 
judgment  of  any  of  the  things  with  which  Constantia 
charged  her.  But  it  was  appalling  to  be  so  charged. 
How  black  was  that  wrong  which  could  set  the 
whole  world  thus  in  discord  and  shut  the  hearts  of 
friends  one  against  another  ! 

She  turned  automatically  towards  the  shrubbery, 

'75 


Life  the  Accuser. 

and,  walking  as  does  one  who  is  brain-benumbed, 
plunged  amongst  the  larches  and  fir-trees  with  the 
instinct  of  the  wounded  creature  after  hiding. 
Suddenly  she  felt  her  limbs  give  way  under  her,  and, 
stumbling  up  against  a  pine-tree,  slid  to  the  ground 
and  leaned  her  head  against  the  trunk.  She  might 
here  have  surrendered  herself  to  the  suppressed  sobs 
which  fought  in  her  breast,  but  that  a  step  in  the 
underwood  warned  her  to  stillness.  Out  of  that 
underwood  —  strange,  sweet  surprise  after  disaster 
—  stepped  Evan  Dayntree.  He  came  and  stood 
before  her,  plucking  shyly  at  the  bark  of  a  fir-tree 
near,  and  looking  at  her  with  whimsical  kindness. 
Why  had  he  followed  her?  She  was  too  wretched 
for  a  talk.  And  yet  her  glance  clung  to  the  kind 
brown  eyes  and  hung  on  the  queer  strong  face.  He 
flung  himself  suddenly  on  the  ground  beside  her. 
The  young  fellow's  manhood  had  been  deeply 
stirred  by  the  sight  of  her  distress.  It  needed  but 
the  signs  of  trouble  anywhere  to  call  up  a  force  of 
tenderness  and  loyal  friendliness  within  him  which 
nothing  would  allay.  He  pushed  a  leaf  towards 
her  on  which  he  had  caught  a  red  spider,  and  it  ran 
from  his  brown  hand  over  Eliza's  dress. 

"  I  say,"  he  said  half  laughingly,  while  Eliza  stared 
at  the  dancing  spider,  "you  have  a  tongue  !  You 
must  be  descended  straight  from  the  Saga  heroines. 
What  makes  you  think  of  such  things?  Why! 
you  '11  whirl  us  all  to  limbo  and  think  nothing  of  it ! 
Lord  help  me  —  if  ever  you  slang  me  that  way  !  " 
176 


Hot  Summer. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

PROVIDENCE  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb ; 
the  very  hour  that  broke  Eliza's  friendship  with 
Constantia  brought  the  renewed  gift  of  Evan's. 

At  first  she  was  hardly  conscious  that  anything 
of  the  kind  was  drawing  near ;  she  was  too  little 
accustomed  to  attract  to  suppose  that  such  an  one 
as  Evan  was  interested  in  her,  but  by  natural  de- 
grees meetings  between  the  pair  became  frequent, 
and  an  intimacy  was  fallen  into  before  either  was 
aware.  Thus  in  the  thorny  wilderness  sprang  up 
a  rose-garden  of  love.  The  bickerings  at  home 
began  to  fall  on  a  deaf  ear ;  she  could  escape 
from  the  family  circle  of  disputants  into  a  story  of 
her  own. 

The  pine-wood  to  which  he  had  first  followed 
her  was  the  chosen  meeting-place.  Here  Evan, 
after  an  active  morning,  would  bring  his  books  in 
the  sure  expectation  that  Eliza  would  recall  his 
cordial  hint  to  join  him  there.  Eliza  loved  the 
warm  wood  with  its  sunlit  spaces,  its  aromatic 
odours,  its  silence,  its  occasional  sounds  of  the 
jay  and  the  woodpecker  and  the  squirrel ;  above 
12  177 


Life  the  Accuser. 

all,  for  its  safe  loneliness  and  the  melting  of  that 
into  this  awakening  friendship. 

One  afternoon  Evan,  throwing  aside  his  book, 
referred  suddenly  to  the  subject  of  Edward.  He 
leaned  against  the  trunk  of  a  fir-tree,  she  was 
seated  on  the  needle-covered  ground;  the  same 
beam  of  sunlight  warmed  them  both.  Startled  by 
his  reference,  she  looked  up  ;  he  had  taken  off  his 
hat,  the  breeze  moved  his  hair,  and  he  wore  a 
musing  expression. 

He  had  inquired  if  the  property  was  settled  yet. 
That  was  not  the  case ;  she  wished  from  her  heart 
it  was  arranged. 

"I  wouldn't  choose  to  be  the  man  to  cut  up 
the  orange,"  said  he  ;  "  but  what  does  your  brother 
know  of  mines?" 

"That  dividends  come  from  them." 

"  That  sort  of  knowledge  ?  My  word  !  what  I 
know  of  mines  wasn't  got  in  an  easy-chair." 

"  What  do  you  know  ? " 

"  Norman  sent  me  out  when  I  was  a  lad.  I  'd  got 
a  smattering  of  engineering,  and  he  fancied  I  was 
something  of  a  manager  of  men,  and  that  the  rough- 
and-tumble  life  out  there  would  do  me  good." 

"Out  where?" 

"  Western  Australia." 

"  Father's  mines  are  there." 

"  Your  father  took  shares  in  a  company,  did  n't 
he?  Sherman's  Reward  they  call  the  mines,  I 
think  ? " 

178 


Hot  Summer. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  that 's  the  name.  I  don't  care. 
I  believe  my  father  was  the  principal  shareholder. 
What  did  you  do  in  the  mines  ? " 

"  It  was  n't  hanging  round  and  asking  for  a  job, 
I  can  tell  you.  The  first  place  I  was  sent  to  was 
the  Lake  Prospect  and  Boulder  North  Battery, 
where  there  were  twenty  head  of  stamps  at  work  on 
stone  yielding  ten  to  twelve  and  fourteen  ounces 
per  ton.  There  were  camps  round  the  place  where 
two  or  three  hundred  men  hung  out,  and  a  store 
or  two,  and  a  pub,  of  course.  I  got  a  hut,  and  felt 
my  way  a  bit." 

"  Did  you  like  it  ?     Was  n't  it  rough  ? " 

"  There  was  n't  much  time  to  consider.  I  'd 
enough  to  do  keeping  straight  on  my  legs,  and 
looking  after  the  engines,  and  so  on.  But  I  know 
I  liked  one  thing.  I  took  a  journey  and  did  a  bit 
of  prospecting  on  my  own  account,  and  made  a 
find." 

"  What  is  '  making  a  find '  ?  " 

"  Oh,  in  a  mine  country  it  means  that  a  fellow  's 
going  along  a  road,  and  he  thinks  he  will  just  pan 
out  a  bit,  or  make  a  prospecting  hole,  and  behold 
he  '  strikes  ile.'  " 

"I  think  I  understand." 

"  Nice  little  girl !  " 

"  Did  you  '  strike  ile  '  ?  " 

"Well,  yes.     I  took  it  into  my  head   to   look 
into  an  ironstone  outcrop  near  the  track,   and   I 
found  it  contained  gold." 
179 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Did  that  make  you  rich  ?     Was  it  all  yours  ?  " 

"  It  made  me  rich  in  one  way.  But  the  claim 
was  for  Norman.  I  was  only  there  for  him.'7 

"  How  did  it  make  you  rich  ? " 

"  Oh,"  said  Evan,  shamefacedly,  "  there  were 
one  or  two  things.  Norman  took  a  ridiculous 
view  of  them.  He  sent  for  me  home,  and  made 
it  his  business  to  give  me  the  most  splendid  en- 
gineering education  that  ever  a  man  had  !  " 

There  was  a  subdued  glow  in  Evan's  brown  face 
—  a  light  in  the  eye.  He  brought  it  down  by 
whistling,  and  striking  his  hands  together  lightly. 

"I  belong  to  a  poorish  branch  of  the  family, 
you  know,"  said  he. 

"Do  you  —  like  Mr.  Dayntree,  then  ?  "  asked 
Eliza,  with  her  heart  beating. 

Evan  nodded.  The  repressed  gesture  said  more 
than  a  storm  of  asseveration. 

"Have  you  done  your  education  yet?"  asked 
the  girl,  returning  hastily  from  the  dreadful  subject 
to  a  woman's  eternal  theme  of  interest  in  the  man 
and  his  works. 

"Does  one  ever  finish  one's  education?  I've 
got  through  the  theoretic  part,  if  you  mean  that, 
in  one  way.  Yes,  I  passed  all  right.  Constantia 
made  a  laurel  wreath,  I  believe.  But  that  didn't 
content  me.  I  wanted  to  go  in  for  the  practical  part? 
and  learn  to  handle  steel  and  iron  from  the  begin- 
ning. I've  been  kicked  about,  I  do  assure  you, 
like  any  journeyman  apprentice  ;  and  I  Ve  given 
180 


Hot  Summer. 

a  blow  or  two  myself,  mayhap.  Just  now  I  *m  doing 
a  bit  of  bookwork  again.  You  can't  polish  up  your 
knowledge  too  fine." 

"  Did  you  pretend  to  be  a  workman  ?  Was  that 
how  you  came  to  know  old  Mr.  Armstrong?" 

"  Is  that  the  only  way  to  get  to  know  John  Arm- 
strong? "  asked  Evan,  showing  his  teeth  in  a  pleas- 
ant laugh.  "  I  'm  a  genuine  workman.  And  it 
is  n't  so  bad,  either,  if  you  let  them  see  you  know 
a  thing  or  two,  and  stand  out  for  trade  union  wages. 
Armstrong  's  a  great  Trade  Unionist." 

"Yes,"  said  Eliza,  who  only  partly  understood, 
but  to  whom  every  word,  whether  comprehended 
or  not,  was  golden. 

"  So  am  I.  In  one  way  or  another  I  Ve  seen 
a  bit  of  life  as  a  workman.  But  the  main  thing  is, 
that  while  you're  doing  a  thing  you  see  how  it 
might  be  done  better ;  and  then  the  inventive  fever 
seizes  you,  and  you  're  like  a  chap  possessed  until 
you  Ve  worked  the  notion  out.  Then  you  Ve  a 
wonderful  sort  of  feel.  You  get  it  right  down  to 
your  finger-tips  "  —  Evan  stretched  out  his  wrists 
and  brown  hands  from  his  sleeves  —  "  you  have  a 
new  consciousness  of  all  sorts  of  things  —  ideas 
that  you  can  get  real  hold  of,  and  put  into  forms 
that  will  last.  Think  how  it  must  have  felt  to  the 
chap  that  first  got  it  into  his  noddle  how  a  bridge 
might  be  made  to  hang  together.  It 's  like  a  new 
sense.  You  go  groping  round,  thinking  what  a 
lot  there  Js  left  for  your  faculties  to  lay  hold  of." 
181 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  I  understand  that 7  "  said  Eliza,  in  a  glow. 

"  Yes  —  I  fancy  you  're  pretty  wide-awake,  young 
woman.  But  to  return  to  where  we  started. 
What  's  your  brother's  interest  in  mines  ? " 

11 1  told  you.     Dividends." 

"  Phew !  It 's  the  making  the  dividends,  not 
the  gathering  them,  that 's  the  real  fun.  But  what 's 
at  the  bottom  ?  —  I  mean,  you  don't  seem  to  trust 
your  brother." 

"  I  do  not,"  said  Eliza.  "  Once,  with  the  rest, 
I  supposed  him  to  be  a  hero.  And  yet  I  used  to 
wonder  why  Edward  was  such  a  hero.  Now  I 
know  that  he's  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  Well,  I  pity  your  brother.  Give  a  dog  a  name 
too  good  for  him  —  and  hang  him." 

"  Perhaps  that 's  it ;  I  don't  know.  He  's  always 
trying  to  appear  something  out  of  the  ordinary,  and 
yet  really  his  acts  are  shabby  and  second-rate. 
That  sort  of  pretence  ends  in  ridiculous  disaster. 
I  told  him  so,  did  n't  I?" 

"  Something  vigorous  of  the  kind.  And  you  — 
you  would  avert  this  disaster  ?  " 

Eliza's  lips  opened  to  the  ready  "Yes."  Con- 
vention expects  of  every  one  a  placable  disposition. 
But  Evan's  face  had  come  to  mean  something  defi- 
nite to  her  mind,  —  something  that  braced  her  to 
efforts  after  truth.  The  facile  affirmative  was 
checked. 

"  No,"  said  she  at  last,  "I  would  not." 

Evan  put  his  lips  to  the  shape  of  a  whistle.  Eliza 
182 


Hot  Summer. 

« 

turned  a  little  pale,  and  wished  she  were  not  so  un- 
fortunate.    But  she  held  to  her  silence. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Eliza,"  said  Evan,  in  his  man's 
judicial  way,  "  you  are  too  harsh.  There 's  no  part 
of  us  where  we  are  so  idiotic  as  in  our  judgments 
one  of  another.  I  too  knew  a  man  who  got  to  be 
very  popular ;  he  got  to  the  top  rung  of  the  ladder, 
—  sat  there  quite  comfortably,  with  his  head  in  the 
clouds,  you  know,  and  everybody  took  off  their 
hats  to  him,  and  grand  people  asked  him  to  dinner 
He  held  on  gaily  enough  for  a  time :  quite  an 
Egyptian  god ;  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  it  was 
found  he  had  committed  a  crime  —  a  cheap  sort  of 
miserable,  sneaking  fraud  he  turned  out,  you  see. 
They  had  to  run  him  in,  and  change  his  broadcloth 
for  a  sack  embellished  with  the  Government  arrow. 
And  of  course  everybody  made  haste  to  drop  him 
like  a  hot  potato  ever  after ;  and  yet  all  the  time  he 
was  the  same  man  —  shunned  or  feted,  just  the 
same.  The  possibility  of  the  crime  was  in  him 
always,  only  he  had  n't  been  found  out.  Is  n't  this 
over-condemnation  or  over-praising  an  unfair  thing  ? 
It  is  best  to  keep  silence.  We  know  very  little. 
And  it  is  foolish  to  find  ourselves  flattering  a 
man  up  one  day,  and  imprisoning  him  the  next ; 
for  all  the  time  it  is  the  same  man,  and  I  dare 
say  pretty  much  of  a  piece  with  ourselves.  If 
you  knock  about  the  world  a  bit,  you  come  to 
know  what  ups  and  downs  there  are  in  human 
nature." 

183 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Thus  spoke  the  wider  knowledge  of  a  man.  Eliza 
listened  painfully. 

"But  all  the  same  the  disaster  brought  out  the 
truth,"  said  she. 

Evan  threw  back  his  head  with  a  pleasurable 
laugh. 

"  It 's  the  truth  you  're  after  then —  eh?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Eliza.  "  I  think  the  truth 
is  safe." 

"  It  was  n't  vengeance  you  sought  ?  " 

"  I  find  revenge  painful  when  I  try  to  feel  it  my- 
self. But  there  is  something  fine  and  sustaining  in 
the  vengeance  that  comes  of  itself." 

"  That 's  it,  is  it?  But  I  tell  you  what,  Eliza,  so 
fine  a  sense  of — of — is  it  justice?  —  must  make 
you  a  little  bit  thorny  to  live  with,  eh  ?  " 

The  pallor  of  old  distress  came  again  to  her 
cheek. 

"  I  see  too  much,"  said  she. 

"  Is  that  it?     But  that 's  fine." 

"  I  am  not  loved,"  said  she.  "  If  I  were  a  man, 
I  should  be.  But  what  are  virtues  in  a  man  are  not 
taken  in  the  same  way  in  a  woman.  Amiable  con- 
cession is  the  only  virtue  people  acknowledge  in  a 
woman.  That  of  course  would  be  maudlin  in  a 
man.  But  it 's  no  use  my  pretending  I  'm  built  that 
way.  I  can't  do  it." 

"  It  just  means  you  are  n't  a  humbug." 

"  Of  course  I  should  like  to  think  it  was  some- 
thing grand.     But  I  'm  afraid  I  can't  do  that." 
184 


Hot  Summer. 

"  Look  here  !  You  're  pretty  jolly,  are  n't  you  ? 
They  don't  bully  you  at  home  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  dare  say  it 's  my  own 
fault.  I  jog  on  in  my  way.  But  I  've  never  had 
the  experience  of  joy.  Sometimes  I  shut  my  eyes 
and  imagine  what  it  would  be  to  feel  real  turbulent, 
satisfying  joy.  I  have  a  Roman  emperor  feeling 
that  I  could  do  with  a  good  deal.  But  I  have  to 
make  shift  with  what  you  could  carry  in  a  corner  of 
a  school-girl's  apron." 

" But  you  have  pleasures?  " 

"  The  world  is  always  interesting.  Besides,  I 
have  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  keeping  myself  back  from 
expectation." 

Evan  looked  at  the  speaker ;  the  golden  light  lay 
on  her  young  cheek.  It  was  monstrous  that  such 
words  should  issue  from  such  a  small  red  mouth. 
The  sense  of  manhood  stirred  his  heart,  and  threw 
tender  rays  from  his  eyes.  He  left  his  tree  and  slid 
to  a  seat  by  her  side.  Eliza  shifted  a  little,  dis- 
turbed by  a  sense  of  sudden  warm  happiness.  She 
looked  shy  as  a  squirrel,  and  as  ready  to  dart  away. 
Evan's  eyes  laughed  softly. 

"  Your  name  and  mine  begin  with  the  same  let- 
ter," said  he. 

He  traced  the  letter  on  the  sandy  soil  twice 
over;  they  stood  out,  ridged  by  a  little  bank  of 
pine-needles.  Eliza  perceived  that  it  was  as  he 
said  ;  and  this  was  the  very  first  time  in  her  life  she 
had  ever  thought  of  her  own  name  with  compla- 


Life  the  Accuser. 

cency.  She  advanced  her  chin  towards  his  shoul- 
der, and  looked  over  it  as  he  continued  to  trace 
letters.  "  Eliza,  Evan/'  he  made  it. 

"  I  'm  glad  it's  in  pine-needles,"  said  she,  struck 
by  something  fitting  in  that. 

"Aromatic  and  strong.  It  means  we  shall  be 
friends  —  are  friends, "  said  Evan. 

"  Friends,"  repeated  Eliza,  sealing  the  word  on 
her  heart  and  memory. 

"Come  to-morrow;  and  bring  a  manuscript  with 
you.  Friends  don't  hide  things  from  each  other." 

"A  manuscript!  Did  I  ever  tell  you  such  a 
thing?" 

"  It  was  better  than  telling.     I  guessed." 

"  You  know  everything.  But  it  seems  waste  of 
time  when  you  might  be  talking." 

"  Pish  !  I  'in  not  going  to  be  defrauded.  To- 
morrow—  at  three,  sharp." 

And  the  next  day  it  was  fine  again  —  it  was  fine 
all  that  summer  of  1876.  The  very  sky  conspired 
at  this  building  up  of  a  fleeting  paradise.  And  a 
pine-wood  is  the  place  left  on  earth  for  Paradise  — 
a  pine-wood,  with  its  silence  to  human  sounds,  and 
its  opportunity  for  nature's,  and  its  sun-collecting 
powers.  There  for  an  afternoon  you  may  lie  at 
ease  in  a  golden,  aromatic  atmosphere,  sun  and 
health  streaming  in  at  every  pore,  and  hear  no 
sound  save  the  note  of  the  jay,  the  woodpecker, 
and  wood-pigeon,  or  the  weirder  cry  of  the  squirrel ; 
you  may  hear,  too,  its  patter-patter  as  it  runs  down 
186 


Hot  Summer. 

the  pine  columns ;  or  you  may  hear  the  tapping  of 
the  woodpecker  at  work,  or  the  scamper  of  the  rab- 
bit, or  the  invisible  beat  of  wings  above  the  high 
canopy  of  the  trees,  or  the  popping  of  pods  and  the 
dropping  of  cones.  And  you  may  have  for  spec- 
tacle bits  of  the  intimate  wood-life  of  creatures,  the 
run  of  the  lizard  slipping  between  the  grass- blades, 
the  alert  poise  of  the  rabbit  conscious  of  enemies  at 
hand,  the  tragical  wars  of  the  ants,  their  building 
and  industry,  the  dance  of  spiders,  and  the  unfold- 
ing or  shedding  of  leaves  and  petals. 

Eliza  was  acquainted  with  the  secret  magic  of 
woods,  but  the  presence  of  Evan  there  threw  an 
ever-new  enchantment.  She  never  lost  the  thrill  of 
surprise  with  which  his  face  and  general  appearance 
affected  her  when  she  saw  him  waiting  amongst  the 
trees. 

"What  have  you  brought?"  said  he  next  day, 
smiling  at  the  bird-like,  speculative  way  in  which 
she  eyed  him. 

"  A  manuscript ;  but  then " 

"Unhand!" 

He  took  the  MS.  from  her;  the  young  fingers 
nestled  together  in  the  act.  She  directed  a  shy, 
half-alarmed  glance  at  the  strong  countenance  — 
clear-shaven,  the  hook  of  the  nose  under  the  straight- 
lying  eyebrows,  and  the  wide  eloquent  lips  beneath. 
The  face  had  a  certain  mobility,  but  the  distinctive 
characteristic  was  that  of  a  man  who  knows  what 
he  wants  and  what  he  is,  and  stands  to  it  with 


Life  the  Accuser. 

unconscious  and  easy  strength.  The  charm  of  the 
countenance  was  in  its  oddity,  its  brownness  of 
skin  and  hair  and  eyes,  and  the  rare  expressiveness 
which  would  shoot  over  the  general  look  of  phlegm 
and  dogged  reserve.  The  figure  was  slim  and  tall, 
the  general  build  and  aspect  being  that  of  a  man  of 
active  life.  He  smacked  nothing  of  the  book  or 
the  desk ;  he  had  but  taken  culture  as  a  preliminary 
to  active  service,  and  the  oil  he  used  up  was  that 
which  he  applied  to  machinery.  Yet  he  was  a 
thinker ;  his  enlarged  consciousness  made  him  that, 
—  a  thinker  more  than  in  the  sense  of  an  engineer 
and  inventor. 

Evan  sat  at  a  little  distance  from  Eliza  while  she 
read. 

With  the  closing  of  the  manuscript  her  courage 
ran  out,  and  she  fell  into  a  timid  and  self-doubting 
mood.  Evan  looked  at  her  with  quiet  interest,  and 
presently  she  felt  it,  whereupon  she  coloured  and 
her  heart  beat. 

"  So  you  wrote  that?"  said  he. 

Eliza  nodded. 

"  I  do  not  quite  see  why  you  should  be  troubled 
with  self-distrust,"  said  he. 

Her  face  softened :  a  smile  changed  her  lips ; 
she  turned  her  head  aside,  yet  showed  a  deeply 
tinted  cheek. 

"  I  have  not  so  much  minded  since  I  met  you 
again  —  since  you  praised  me." 

"Has  it  helped  you?" 

188 


Hot  Summer. 

"Yes." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Eliza,"  said  Evan,  taking  a 
stick  and  running  his  eye  along  it  to  make  a  meas- 
urement, "  it 's  a  bit  of  very  fine  common-sense  to 
have  a  good  look  at  yourself  and  your  capacities, 
accept  the  whole  lump,  good  and  bad  together,  and 
make  shift  not  to  be  frightened." 

"Does  everybody  have  to  do  it?" 

"  Lord  bless  you,  yes.     If  they  're  worth  their  salt." 

"  Very  well,  then ;  I  have  done  so.  I  shall  be 
lonely.  Yet  not  so  lonely." 

He  smiled,  and,  putting  out  his  hand,  took  Eliza's 
in  his  own  and  pressed  it  in  a  silent  promise  of 
good  comradeship. 

It  was  not  love,  but  it  might  have  been  love. 

Such  an  intimacy  carried  on  uninterruptedly 
would  have  borne  them  into  the  deeps  of  existence, 
and  a  moment  would  have  discovered  the  impor- 
tance to  each  of  the  other's  personality.  But  Eliza 
was  not  a  woman  to  catch  a  man  suddenly  on  the 
warm  current  of  his  blood ;  and  in  this  crowded 
world  opportunities  are  not  prolonged.  One  hot 
afternoon  in  September  the  change  came  to  her 
Arcadia.  They  were  still  in  the  pine-wood,  and 
Evan  had  been  teaching  her  to  distinguish  birds  by 
their  flight. 

"  A  thing  is  so  much  more  when  one  can  name 
it,"  Eliza  had  said. 

They  were  on  their  way  home,  and  neared  the 
gate  that  opened  to  the  road.  As  they  approached 
189 


Life  the  Accuser. 

they  heard  the  sound  of  the  mad  gallop  of  hoofs  on 
the  sward  in  the  lane.  A  pony  went  by  bearing  a 
figure  —  whether  man  or  woman  did  not  immedi- 
ately appear.  But  whoever  it  was  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Eliza,  glanced  back  and  pulled  up.  It  was  Rosa- 
lie. She  leapt  from  the  pony's  back  and  slipped 
the  bridle  over  her  arm.  She  wore  one  knew  not 
what  costume  save  that  it  was  graceful,  boyish,  and 
eminently  adapted  to  her  person  and  to  the  saddle 
—  the  saddle,  that  is,  when  a  ride  is  contemplated 
up  the  pass  of  a  mountain  or  across  the  prairies  of 
the  West.  The  scarlet  head-gear  of  which  she  was 
so  fond,  topped  her  dark  rippling  hair,  and  the 
flame  of  it  was  repeated  in  her  cheeks ;  but  no  part 
of  her  charm,  not  excepting  her  eyes,  was  so  great 
as  the  ease  and  poetry  of  her  activity,  her  manage- 
ment and  mastery  of  herself  and  horse. 

She  ran  up  to  Eliza  looking  like  a  handsome  boy, 
the  pony  trotting  after  her ;  the  allurement  of  her 
sex  appealed  the  more  strongly  to  Evan  because  of 
her  strange  disguise.  Through  the  boyish  costume 
the  lines  of  her  figure  —  the  slender  neck,  the  thin 
slight  waist,  the  fineness  of  limb  —  threw  out  a 
strong  delicious  impress  of  womanhood  in  vigour 
and  activity.  It  touched  his  heart  with  a  swift  sug- 
gestion of  the  desirableness  of  the  sex  could  the 
more  permanent  feminine  qualities  be  associated 
with  suppleness  of  muscle  and  delicate  firmness  of 
nerve.  When  she  stretched  over  the  gate  and 
touched  Eliza's  cheek  with  her  lips,  Evan  felt  the 
190 


Hot  Summer. 

bite  of  it  in  his  heart.  She  had  caught  him  on  the 
wing  of  his  fancy,  spurring  up  his  emotions  with  the 
lightest  flick,  and  already  they  leapt  with  him  to 
the  clouds.  She  had  not  yet  spoken.  The  kiss 
over,  she  began  — 

"  Here  I  am,  Eliza,  in  the  full  swing  of  final 
rebellion.  Glynn  and  the  groom  are  scouring  the 
country  in  search  of  me.  It  became  necessary  to 
do  something  marked.  So  I  raked  this  dress  out 
of  a  drawer  —  I  used  to  ride  in  it  with  my  father 
abroad  —  went  to  the  stables  and  saddled  my  pony 
myself  and  then  rode  off,  passing  the  front  of  the 
house  ostentatiously  first.  I  am  bent  on  reforming 
Glynn.  But  the  remedies  will  have  to  be  severe. 
I  must  scandalise  the  county." 

She  raised  the  knot  of  her  riding  whip  and  pushed 
her  scarlet  cap  back  a  little  —  for  between  laughter 
and  wild  riding  she  was  hot  —  and  perceiving  Evan 
for  the  first  time.  The  laughter  and  daring  died 
not  one  whit  from  her  eyes,  but  their  glance  slid 
from  the  deep  admiration  in  his. 

"  Rosalie,  may  I  introduce  Mr.  Evan  Dayntree  ? 
This  is  Miss  Trelyon." 

The  voice  was  cold,  almost  weary.  She  too  had 
marked  in  his  eyes  that  expression  which  he  had 
never  turned  on  herself. 

"You  had  better  not  know  me,  Mr.  Dayntree," 

said  Rosalie,  crisply ;  "  I  am  a  social  rebel,  and  should 

shock  your  prejudices.   Adieu,  Eliza.    Come  and  see 

me  soon.     Just  at  present  I  must  pursue  my  flight." 

191 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  The  pony  had  been  snuggling  its  muzzle  against 
her  arm  ;  she  laid  her  hand  on  its  shoulder  and 
was  back  on  the  saddle  in  a  moment,  disregarding 
Evan's  eager  proffer  of  help.  The  pony  sprang  to 
a  gallop  and  she  was  gone. 

Evan  and  Eliza  turned  and  walked,  but  it  was  in 
silence.  The  birds,  the  trees,  the  flowers  drew 
from  them  no  remark.  Arcadia  was  over.  Evan, 
glancing  at  his  companion,  found  her  face  was  like 
a  homely  landscape  from  which  the  sun  has  been 
withdrawn.  Yet  he  had  thought  her  pretty  before. 
After  a  little  time  a  groom  thundered  past  on  a  big 
grey  horse. 

"  What  a  piece  of  fun  !  "  murmured  Evan. 

"Yes,"  said  Eliza  in  a  low  voice. 

It  provoked  him  that  she  should  be  so  silent  and 
self-contained. 

It  is  an  old  tragedy ;  the  foot  of  one  woman 
treads  too  closely  on  another;  Eliza's  love-story 
was  broken. 

For  the  next  three  days  Evan  neglected  to  carry 
his  books  to  the  pine-wood.  He  thought  the 
weather  was  clouded  and  chill.  He  said  not  a 
word  to  any  one  —  not  even  to  Constantia.  But  it 
is  difficult  for  a  young  man  to  hide  his  love  from  a 
woman  interested  in  him,  and  older  than  himself. 

Constantia  pondered  over  the  identity  of  the  girl 
who  had  caught  and  chained  his  fancy.  One  even- 
ing a  small  incident  revealed  to  her  that  it  was 
Rosalie  Trelyon.  And  then  her  heart  leapt  up  with 
192 


Hot  Summer. 

the  strangest  beat  of  gladness ;  she  wondered  that 
her  hands  trembled,  that  so  intense  a  relief  mingled 
with  her  sympathy.  Only  in  that  moment  did  she 
discover  that  Eliza's  warning  had  left  a  mark.  She 
thought  she  would  tell  her  husband  that  night  how 
she  had  guessed  at  Evan's  secret.  She  did  not. 
Something  held  her  tongue.  She  shrank  from  so 
much  self-abasement  as  would  lie  in  the  appearance 
—  in  her  own  eyes — of  managing  in  a  matter  in 
which  she  proudly  disdained  to  believe. 


13  193 


Life  the  Accuser. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  day  following  found  Rosalie  in  a  melancholy 
mood,  and  without  other  resource  than  to  wander 
in  the  garden.  Since  her  foot  touched  this  land  of 
fogs,  and  limited  scope,  she  had  been  subjected  to1 
occasional  fits  of  ennui,  and  these  a  healthy  instinct 
prompted  her  to  combat  in  ways  objectionable  to 
her  mother  and  Miss  Glynn.  Rosalie  was  one 
whose  force  of  nature  needed  constant  outlets  to 
keep  it  wholesome.  Of  late  the  triste  and  empty 
moods  had  deepened  to  something  more  sombre ; 
they  usually  accompanied  the  turning  of  her  thought 
upon  her  mother,  and  left  her  with  failing  self- 
assurance  and  the  sense  of  being  as  groping  a 
creature  as  most. 

From  patronage  and  almost  open  ridicule  she 
began  unwillingly  to  connect  her  mother  with  a 
sense  of  fear.  Deep  down  beneath  that  lady's 
conventions  and  languid  invalidism  the  daughter 
thought  she  detected  a  daring  cynicism,  a  cold  con- 
tempt of  the  world  she  flattered  and  baffled,  before 
which  her  own  scorn  paled.  The  teasing  question 
was  whether  this  contempt  included  herself. 
194 


Hot  Summer. 

Mrs.  Trelyon's  skill  in  innuendo  was  proverbial. 
In  the  interview  to  which  her  daughter  was  sum- 
moned after  yesterday's  escapade,  she  kept  an 
unruffled  demeanour,  but  exercised  that  skill  of  the 
tongue  to  its  highest  point.  Rosalie  had  been 
affected  by  it  as  by  something  in  the  last  degree 
dreadful.  She  felt  that  she  was  threatened,  but  did 
not  learn  with  what ;  the  velvet  voice  admonished 
her  of  danger,  and  went  no  further  with  the  infor- 
mation ;  somewhere  she  inferred  was  a  shadow,  and 
at  any  moment  the  splendour  of  existence  might  be 
overcast. 

In  the  park  was  a  favourite  place  of  her  resort ; 
it  was  a  wide  and  level  plateau  of  grass  that  might 
once  have  been  a  bowling-green,  but  which  now 
was  a  sun-filled  spot  in  which  the  blades  and 
smaller  flowers  grew  more  freely  than  in  a  lawn. 
Thither  that  afternoon  she  turned  her  steps,  and, 
pacing  slowly  to  and  fro,  her  hands  linked  behind 
her,  her  eyes  now  fixed  on  the  grass  and  now 
uplifted  to  the  horizon,  marshalled  before  her 
memory  every  incident  of  her  life  which  had  per- 
plexed her  by  something  the  same  mystery  which 
her  mother's  innuendoes  intentionally  cast  towards 
her  to-day.  It  was  necessary  for  her  peace  of 
mind  to  hunt  these  hints  down  to  knowledge,  and 
to  satisfy  herself  whether  a  genuine  cause  for  alarm 
existed  —  or  whether  (and  to  this  she  inclined) 
the  fear  was  conventional,  and  needed  but  a  firm 
defiance  in  the  crushing.  For  full  an  hour  she 


Life  the  Accuser. 

paced  up  and  down,  her  face  wearing  the  look  of  a 
handsome  savage,  whose  every  sense  and  instinct  is 
on  the  alert  against  danger. 

This  face  of  Rosalie's  was  delicately  sketched  in 
lines  that  run  to  pride  rather  than  pathos ;  besides 
its  beauty  it  was  full  of  charm ;  nevertheless  it  had  a 
quality  —  a  certain  quality  not  very  easy  to  define, 
but  perfectly  recognisable  to  the  opposite  sex. 

When  the  face  was  full  of  healthy  occupation  the 
quality  appeared  merely  as  a  beautiful  ripeness ; 
but  on  occasion  —  and  the  first  meeting  with  Nor- 
man had  been  one  of  these  —  it  took  a  stronger 
accentuation. 

There  came  a  moment  when,  as  by  enchantment, 
the  truth  she  sought  leapt  suddenly  upon  her,  and 
showed  itself  as  a  thing  at  once  astounding,  unwel- 
come, and  convincing ;  the  bright  intensity  of  ex- 
pression was  smitten  from  her  countenance;  she 
stood  motionless,  her  head  drooping,  and  drew  one 
or  two  deep  breaths.  Then  she  raised  her  head 
and  showed  her  eyes  hardening  a  little,  while  that 
quality  in  her  face  stood  out  in  marked  distinctness. 
She  had  received  a  shock,  and  it  had  disturbed  the 
least  admirable  part  of  a  nature  full  of  force  in  every 
portion  of  it.  The  worst,  the  most  dangerous,  was 
uppermost. 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  she,  taking  a  pace  or  two  for- 
wards ;  "  my  father  !  All  along  he  was  telling  me 
the  same  thing  in  his  way." 

She  threw  herself  full-length  on  the  grass  to  re- 
196 


Hot  Summer. 

fleet;  it  was  not  in  her  nature  to  count  herself 
defeated  or  even  injured,  still  less — and  this  was 
unfortunate  —  humiliated  in  the  least  degree. 

The  news  after  all  was  painful  only  to  her  con- 
ventionalised part ;  it  was  on  the  other  hand  con- 
sistent—  so  she  proudly  told  herself — with  her 
ideal,  and  merely  broke  away  any  remaining  shackle 
wherewith  she  had  permitted  civilisation  to  bind 
her.  Life  had  always  been  a  little  splendid  in  cir- 
cumstance, this  argued  splendour  in  herself ;  hence- 
forth she  was  free  indeed  ;  nothing  in  her  existence 
from  the  very  beginning  had,  it  appeared,  been 
commonplace ;  her  very  nature  had  been  sown 
with  seeds  other  than  those  allowed  by  social  rules 
and  contracts ;  her  origin  was  apart  from  a  greater 
than  the  laws  within  which,  she  was  now  sure,  she 
had  not  been  born.  An  instinct  always  to  regard 
herself  pictorially  led  her  to  argue  on  to  even  finer 
conclusions.  Her  mother's  figure,  for  example, 
began  to  loom  upon  her  fancy  in  somewhat  heroic 
dimensions  ;  those  who  broke  laws  were  greater  in 
her  view  than  the  laws  they  broke,  and  greatest  in 
the  moment  when  they  broke  them.  The  birthright 
bestowed  upon  herself  was  liberty ;  she  —  this 
Rosalie  who  lay  along  the  grass  —  was  specially  the 
child  and  heir  to  freedom  ;  existence  had  been 
given  to  hAr  by  the  brevet  of  Nature  alone,  and 
that  was  a  more  valid  one  than  any  these  poor 
puppets  born  of  convention  could  claim.  On  ran 
her  imagination  dizzily,  to  conjure  at  last  nothing 
197 


Life  the  Accuser. 

but  a  glowing  splendour  from  her  discovery,  and  a 
sense  of  emancipation  so  exuberant  that  had  she 
known  it,  it  was  akin  to  license.  Then  the  eyes 
shining  and  changing  with  the  rippling  of  the  grass, 
softened  a  little.  Thought  had  carried  her  to  her 
so-called  father,  and  she  pondered  on  his  love  and 
large  indulgence.  Why  had  it  been  so  ? 

He  had  been,  she  knew,  one  of  those  quietly 
original  natures  who  solve  problems  according  to 
their  own  conclusions  alone.  To  have  accepted  a 
painful  experience  silently,  and  to  have  treated  it  in 
a  manner  out  of  all  precedent  was  like  him.  She 
remembered  him  as  a  nature  deeply  tinged  with 
melancholy,  a  man  of  few  words,  and  delighting 
only  in  the  strenuous  activities  in  which  he  had 
trained  her  to  take  part.  But  that  he  should  have 
thrown  such  adequate  protection  over  her  mother 
as  was  involved  by  his  acceptance  of  herself  must 
find  an  answer  fitted  to  her  dreams.  She  sought  it 
in  the  conviction  that  her  father  had  recognised  in 
the  assailant  of  his  honour  a  character  cast  in  a 
finer  mould  than  his  own  —  a  man  perhaps  whose 
only  right  was  dauntless  deeds  —  and  had  bowed  to 
the  elemental  claim  of  superiority. 

Now  indeed  the  girl  clasped  a  hand  upon  a  beat- 
ing heart !  To  her  putative  father  she  had  given  a 
golden  allegiance  as  to  the  man  amongst  men. 
Who  was  great  enough  to  filch  allegiance  from  him 
—  and  who  to  be  the  splendid  thief  who  had 
tempted  her  mother  from  his  side? 
198 


Hot  Summer. 

"  My  mother  locks  his  memory  in  her  eyes/7  she 
murmured ;  "  I  see  it  when  I  find  the  half-lidded 
look  upon  me.  Would  she  but  speak  and  let  me 
share  ! " 

Upon  this  fanciful  presentment  of  a  great  descent _, 
her  fancy  clung  and  brightened.  She  was  full  of 
intoxicated  imaginings,  her  dreams  took  higher 
wings.  She  began  to  summon  from  the  pages  of 
later  history  processions  of  the  bearers  of  great 
names,  to  recall  stupendous  deeds  and  to  remember 
their  authors ;  and  as  the  shadows  of  these  great 
ones  of  the  earth  fell  on  her  mind,  to  first  one,  then 
another,  her  eager  pride  leapt  out  with  the  cry  of 
"Father!" 

The  baffling  point  in  this  enchanted  dreaming 
was  her  mother.  Why  should  she  sink  from  the 
level  of  that  past  to  a  life  of  subterfuge  ?  Better  a 
great  irregularity,  and  even  crime,  than  an  existence 
of  sleepy  order  —  a  life  for  example  such  as  Con- 
stantia  Dayntree  led  (her  mind  darted  a  contemptu- 
ous daring  thought  Constantia's  way),  slow-creeping 
along  trim  and  common  paths.  Why  should  her 
mother  conform  to  this  ignoble  world  when  the 
secret  of  the  past  was  worth  a  bold  demeanour? 
Scornful  impatience  moved  her  to  higher  compacts 
with  herself;  should  such  an  hour  arrive,  thus  and 
thus  her  fearless  choice  should  lie.  With  small 
rash  fingers  of  the  soul  —  at  heart  an  innocent  for 
the  last  time  —  she  loosed  the  safeguards  that  re- 
mained, and  breathed  out  the  unbridled  question 
199 


Life  the  Accuser. 

whether  one  existed  whose  worth  stood  level  with 
her  clear  resolve. 

That  was  the  moment  for  the  vaguer  vaunt  to  leave 
her  mind  in  the  dangerous  occupation  of  detail. 

One  she  told  herself  fitted  well  with  her  concep- 
tion of  a  man.  That  one  fretted  her  by  the  sense 
of  imperfect  conquest ;  there  was  a  reserve,  a  power 
she  had  not  shaken  —  a  barrier  over  which  her  feet 
had  not  trespassed.  She  was  teased  by  the  sense 
of  an  unconquered  world.  On  her  side  was  there 
even  a  ripple  of  passion  ?  It  might  be  —  enough  to 
give  zest  to  the  adventure.  But  passion  so  far  had 
been  a  changeling  led  by  her  own  hand ;  she  said 
that  she  was  free  when  she  liked  and  could  cast  the 
changeling  off  at  wish.  At  that  instant,  however, 
drawing  within  her  fevered  mind  too  clear  and  free 
a  presentment  of  an  admired  personality,  she  found 
herself  assaulted  by  an  insufferable  tumult  of  the 
heart  and  pulses ;  something  unruly  had  her  in  its 
grip,  and  she  leapt  to  a  sitting  posture  in  defiance 
of  this  formidable  sensation  —  her  blood  surging  at 
a  name. 

A  shadow  fell  upon  her  from  behind,  and  some 
one  stood  between  the  sun  and  her;  she  knew  with- 
out looking  up  that  it  was  her  mother ;  with  her 
presence  came  a  chill. 

"Yes?  "  said  she,  without  turning  her  head. 

"Your  plans  for  the  afternoon,  my  dear?"  de- 
manded Mrs.  Trelyon,  suavely ;  "  are  we  to  repeat 
the  escapade  of  yesterday?  " 
200 


Hot  Summer. 

"  My  invention  is  nearly  at  an  end,"  said  Rosalie, 
with  a  smile.  "  By  and  by  I  shall  think  of  some- 
thing." But  the  smile  was  nervous.  Her  nature 
still  shook  under  that  premonitory  shudder  which 
felt  as  a  reverberation  from  something  at  once  allur- 
ing and  destructive.  "Mother!  Mother!"  she 
added  involuntarily. 

The  cry  rose  unbidden.  Mrs.  Trelyon  received 
it  in  silence.  She  had  not  forgiven  yesterday's  mad 
ride ;  she  was  not  able  to  feel  tender  to  the  girl 
whose  wilful  eccentricity  sent  perpetual  chills  of 
apprehension  to  a  heart  too  proud  to  endure  the 
consciousness  of  them.  Looking  down  upon  her 
daughter,  she  found  her  too  much  the  counterpart 
of  herself  not  to  shrink  from  her ;  too  much  a  dis- 
turber of  buried  memories  ;  there  were  things  in  her 
own  life  yet  unpardoned  by  her  own  pride,  out  of 
which  the  consequence  had  been  dammed  up  by  a 
vigorous  will  and  careful  discretion.  It  was  difficult 
for  her  to  bear  the  re-awakening  of  half-dead  scan- 
dals. What  was  the  good  of  having  been  a  woman 
cleverer  than  most  when  everything  was  risked  by 
Rosalie's  insistence  on  this  skittish  dance  upon  the 
edge  of  danger?  When  yesterday  she  rode  past 
the  drawing-room  windows  in  that  costume,  of  what 
had  not  the  girl  reminded  her  !  There  was  bitter- 
ness and  anguish  in  the  woman's  heart  as  she  stood 
looking  down  on  the  handsome  head  with  its  waves 
of  dark  hair.  There  was  fear  too  —  fear  of  this  off- 
spring of  her  own  who  in  pride  and  spirit  and  wil- 
201 


Life  the  Accuser. 

fulness  watched  herself,  and  who  had  been  trained 
by  her  husband  to  a  directness  of  speech  and  bear- 
ing which,  under  the  circumstances,  she  could  but 
find  exasperating. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  must  not  ask  for  my  assistance. 
But  whatever  your  ingenuity  decides  on,  remember 
one  thing :  take  Glynn  with  you"  said  she,  pur- 
posely toning  her  voice  —  shaken  through  and 
through  as  she  was  by  misery  and  alarm  —  to  its 
habitual  suave  cynicism. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  your  character  is  safe  when  in  her 
companionship  from  its  own  recklessness." 

"  She  is  a  vile  humbug." 

"  No  —  merely  stupid." 

"  But  why  is  stupidity  my  safeguard  ?  " 

"  Because  stupidity  is  what  society  trusts.  I  long 
ago  made  the  discovery,  and  therefore  engaged 
Glynn  for  you." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  be  a  liar  and  a  humbug 
too,  mother?  " 

"  My  dear !  You  remind  me  of  your  father.  He 
was  often  violent,  and  then  he  introduced  irrelevant 
matter." 

"Mother!  mother!  who  was  my  father?"  cried 
Rosalie,  in  a  voice  burning  with  dreams. 

A  light  sigh  from  Mrs.  Trelyon  floated  over  her 
head. 

"  An  excellent  man  who  undervalued  me." 

"Tell  me  the  truth." 

202 


Hot  Summer. 

"  I  do  so  —  on  occasion  boldly.  And  then  you 
reject  it." 

"My  father  was  a  king  amongst  men.'' 

"  There,  love,  you  seem  to  me  mistaken.  But 
have  it  your  own  way." 

"  I  shall  have  my  own  way.  I  shall  take  my  own 
way." 

"  Take  it  —  take  it,  dear  !  —  cordially.  Only 
take  Glynn  along  with  you  too." 

"  I  shall  be  true," 

"  My  love  !  Try  not.  Society  will  never  pardon 
you  for  that." 

It  was  a  battle  of  empty  words ;  but  the  back- 
ground was  tense  with  fear. 


203 


Life  the  Accuser. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  HEAVEN  fit  me  for  this  new  dawn  !  As  I  'm  a 
man  and  a  lover  I  shall  do  something !  "  Evan  had 
procured  an  introduction  to  the  lady  of  his  dreams, 
and  he  was  not  one  to  let  the  grass  grow  under  his 
feet  once  his  resolve  was  taken.  It  was  character- 
istic of  him  that  the  leaven  of  the  new  emotion,  while 
stirring  every  department  of  his  nature,  pre-emi- 
nently introduced  itself  into  his  conception  of  work. 

"  If  I  had  not  met  her,"  said  he  to  himself  on  his 
way  back  from  a  call  at  South  Downs,  "  I  should 
have  been  content  with  a  very  small  achievement. 
Just  a  pump  or  two,  for  example,  or  opening  up  an 
English  railway.  But  I'm  bound  for  something 
better  now.  There 's  that  dredging  difficulty  in  the 
Suez  Canal.  I  've  had  a  notion  or  two  lately  how 
to  worry  through  that  business  —  a  notion  I  got 
when  examining  the  charts  of  the  Breakwaters  and 
the  flow  of  the  currents.  Now  I  Ve  a  mind  to  set 
to  work  on  it  in  earnest.  If  on  further  examination 
I  find  my  idea  holds  together,  I  '11  get  Norman  to 
use  his  interest  in  giving  me  a  chance  to  lay  it  before 
the  authorities,  and  I  '11  get  myself  sent  out  there 
just  to  have  a  shy  at  it.  Meanwhile  I  '11  finish  off 
204 


Hot  Summer. 

that  job  on  the  Thames  :  if  I  can't  make  my  plan 
of  pneumatic  dredging  a  success,  I  don't  count  my 
head  worth  a  barber's  handling." 

Day  by  day,  in  the  intervals  of  a  passion  of  appli- 
cation to  his  work,  he  strode  in  eager  haste  to 
Rosalie's  side.  He  thought  of  her  as  the  noblest 
"  not  impossible "  mate  a  man's  eyes  ever  shone 
upon.  She  thought  of  him  as  the  new  young  man 
with  the  odd  tanned  face  and  the  inevitable  look. 
Perhaps  he  was  a  shade  more  interesting  than 
others,  as  he  never  fell  back  on  the  inanity  of  "  small 
talk,"  but  either  listened  or  spoke  of  real  things.  In 
fact  Evan  was  too  much  possessed  by  an  absorbing 
sense  of  the  earnestness  of  life  to  be  in  a  mood  to 
attempt  engaging  twaddle ;  he  talked  to  her  from 
the  level  of  his  own  ideas  of  what  she  was,  and 
chiefly  about  the  engineering  schemes  of  which  he 
secretly  named  her  the  inspirer.  She  had  shown 
interest  in  a  sketch  of  the  Suez  Canal,  and  in  his 
description  of  the  difficulty  caused  by  the  opposition 
of  the  Breakwaters  to  the  washing  of  the  sea ;  her 
face  brightened  pleasantly  when  he  said  he  had  a 
notion  it  might  be  overcome  ;  that  was  so  much  to 
the  good.  On  his  side  he  endeavoured  to  tempt 
her  to  speak  of  her  colonial  life;  here  he  found 
her  reticent;  she  would  draw  back,  appear  con- 
strained ;  the  eloquent,  beautiful  lips  closed,  only 
opening  again  to  utter  something  evasive. 

Rosalie  no  longer  invited  conversation  on  the 
colonies ;  her  mental  attitude  to  that  portion  of  her 
205 


Life  the  Accuser. 

life  was  changed.  The  past  was  indeed  golden  as 
ever,  but  then  her  part  in  it  had  been  played  —  she 
told  herself —  under  false  pretences.  It  had  been  a 
gift  from  Mr.  Trelyon,  and  not  her  own  right ;  even 
the  name  she  bore  was  not  her  own.  Nothing 
would  cure  this  complicated  wound  to  her  pride 
save  the  winning  to  herself  of  as  striking  a  position 
and  uncommon  an  environment  from  some  basis 
strictly  her  own. 

Evan  remarked,  though  he  misread  the  reason, 
that  schemes  which  appealed  to  the  imagination  — 
schemes  in  effect  a  little  "in  the  air"  —  interested 
her  more  than  Suez  Canal  difficulties.  Of  the 
particular  make  of  dredging-boat  that  was  to  help 
towards  the  cleansing  of  the  Thames,  he  had  an 
instinct  not  to  speak ;  —  that  was  too  prosaic  for 
the  ears  of  the  lady  of  his  love,  or  rather  he  had  not 
the  skill  to  set  out  in  language  any  of  the  poetry 
which  he  discerned  as  lying  behind.  He  introduced 
the  subject  of  the  Soudan  and  of  the  proposed  rail- 
way. He  told  of  the  run  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  that  had  to  be  made  across  a  desert  un- 
inhabited, save  by  wandering  tribes,  subject  to  vio- 
lent dust-storms  or  to  immersion  beneath  tropical 
rainfalls  or  downpours  from  the  reservoirs  of  granite 
hills.  Something  in  the  sense  of  vast  desolating 
loneliness  touched  her  treasured  memories  without 
hurting  them ;  she  sparkled ;  the  eyes  opened  on 
some  intense  appreciation ;  they  were  dreamlike ; 
the  interest  he  could  not  but  see  was  ulterior  —  but 
206 


Hot  Summer. 

she  was  pleased,  and  that  was  something.  He  had 
knowledge  of  his  subject  and  talked  on,  a  map 
under  his  hand.  She  broke  in  on  his  words  with  a 
half-breathed  exclamation,  — 

"  A  man  is  wanted  to  bring  the  enterprise  through. 
Such  a  man  I  know  !  " 

It  fell  as  an  unpremeditated  whisper  to  her  own 
ear.  For  a  moment  Evan's  vanity  allowed  a  hope  \ 
but  then  the  absent  film  in  her  eyes  effaced  it. 
Some  pain  constricted  his  heart,  and  he  turned 
from  her  face  and  looked  soberly  before  him  with 
mildly  folded  lips  warning  himself  to  patience  and 
against  presumption. 

Walking  home  that  day,  he  pondered  within  him- 
self whether  he  should  throw  his  energies  into  the 
Soudan  scheme,  and  by  doubling  his  work  and 
his  efforts,  force  his  way  to  the  front  and  win  her 
praise. 

"  But  who  was  the  other  fellow  she  meant?"  he 
asked  himself  uneasily  ;  "  a  word  may  be  a  thrust  to 
a  man's  heart,  I  find  !  It 's  part  of  the  condition,  I 
suppose.  Well  !  the  odds  are  she  meant  no  more 
than  a  better  foreign  or  colonial  secretary  than 
we  Ve  got." 

He  thought  of  the  slender  hand  as  he  had  seen  it 
lying  by  the  map  near  him,  the  third  finger  wearing 
in  his  fancy  not  so  much  a  rim  of  gold  as  one  of 
light.  With  that  his  face  turned  to  the  horizon  with 
on-looking  eyes,  became  suffused  with  emotion,  and 
from  his  lips  broke  words  of  wild  yearning  tender- 
207 


Life  the  Accuser. 

ness ;  the  song  of  the  night-jar  throbbing  through 
the  air  musically  threw  them  back  to  his  ear :  — 
"  Wife  !  Wife  !  Inspirer  !  "  then  rang. 

"  No  !  no  ! "  said  he  to  himself  as  he  paced  along 
more  rapidly ;  "  I  Ve  got  not  to  lose  hold  on  myself. 
If  I  'm  to  realise  my  hopes,  I  'm  not  to  give  up  my 
real  instincts  for  a  false  step  —  miscalled  a  short 
cut.  Dredging  and  kindred  work,  Evan  Dayn- 
tree,  is  your  settled  business,  and  you  've  got  to 
go  on  setting  your  hand  to  it,  and  find  the  poetry 
after." 

He  took  his  cap  from  his  head  and  walked  on, 
listening  to  and  interpreting  the  song  of  the  bird 
by  the  thrills  in  his  own  heart.  He  knew  by  the 
stir  there,  by  the  tumult  throughout  his  nature,  that 
the  woman  he  had  chosen  was  his  own.  There 
were  other  young  men  of  course  in  question.  That 
did  not  disturb  him.  Armstrong  came  there,  for 
example.  It  scarcely  ruffled  his  feeling.  All  the 
world  was  in  love  with  her,  of  course  ;  but  it  brought 
him  not  a  falter  of  doubt. 

Thus  day  by  day  the  love-story  ran  on,  —  her 
charm  growing  with  the  hours.  And  in  a  sense 
he  saw  her  truly,  building  up  her  qualities  and  in- 
ferring her  characteristics  with  the  insight  of  a  lover. 
But  his  eye  failed  there  where  he  never  dreamed 
of  looking.  He  took  the  usual  feminine  attributes 
for  granted,  and  no  more  questioned  their  existence 
than  he  questioned  the  existence  of  a  white  cleanly 
body  beneath  her  mysteriously  picturesque  costumes. 
208 


Hot  Summer. 

Meanwhile  it  happened  to  Norman  Dayntree  to 
experience  the  inconveniences  of  a  complicated 
character.  A  strong  man  of  less  mixed  nature  is 
indomitable  alike  in  his  wickedness  and  in  his 
goodness,  but  there  was  a  backwater  in  the  mind 
of  Norman  which  interfered  with  completeness. 
With  him  the  average  sensuality  entrenched  in 
custom  was  beleaguered  round  by  rare  spiritual 
possibilities ;  already  the  foe  knocked  warningly, 
irregularly,  against  the  gates ;  on  occasion,  even 
now,  he  started  at  this  eerie  rap  from  spectral  fin- 
gers. It  was  within  the  hazard  of  the  game  that 
the  small  thing  might  become  importunate,  might 
rise  to  thunders,  to  violent  incursion,  to  a  desolating 
onslaught  of  something  spiritually  terrific.  Norman 
was  not  the  type  of  man  who  is  left  alone  to  his 
iniquity. 

He  met  these  unfounded  scares  with  the  cold 
negations  of  common -sense.  So  far  he  was  clear 
of  anything  final,  but  he  was  perfectly  aware  what 
lay  within  the  possibilities  should  intoxicating  op- 
portunity continue  to  hunt  him.  The  contem- 
plated thing  he  might  refuse  to  qualify  as  either 
right  or  wrong ;  he  saw  it  —  if  he  looked  at  it  at 
all  —  as  an  action  carrying  certain  balances  of 
advantage  for  himself,  and  no  harm  to  any  other 
creature.  A  commercial  transaction  standing  be- 
fore him  in  such  a  light  would  not  leave  room  for 
hesitation. 

As  regards  the  girl  ?    Well !     There  are  women 
H  209 


Life  the  Accuser. 

and  women  as  there  are  men  and  men.  Human 
nature  appraises  its  kind  by  rules  of  its  own,  deter- 
mining personal  worth  in  a  balance  by  untested 
weights  and  measures.  From  the  evening  when  she 
had  thrown  her  first  ensnaring  glance  towards  him, 
he  had  had  impressions  and  instincts ;  and  in  these 
matters  what  man  erred  ?  Surmise  as  to  her  pos- 
sible nature  was  supported  by  convenient  gossip  — 
a  bit  of  scandal  had  of  late  been  revived.  Trelyon 
was  recalled  as  one  "without  guile,"  likeable 
enough,  but  on  occasion  obstinate  and  of  wholly 
incalculable  action.  Accidentally  the  girl  might  be 
partly  a  Warrenne,  but  she  was  no  Trelyon ;  his 
carrying  her  off  secretly  and  rearing  her  as  his  own 
child  was  a  bit  of  laughable  eccentricity ;  but  that 
was  Trelyon  all  over.  Apart  from  origin,  Rosalie 
was,  as  a  man  views  things,  fair  game ;  for  in  effect 
she,  not  he,  was  the  seducer.  There  indeed  was 
the  rub  !  Still  he  could  tell  himself  that  he  had 
kept  the  reins  to  this  hour  in  his  own  hands  ;  on  the 
whole  his  manliness  was  satisfied  with  itself,  but  the 
physical  was  an  element  that  had  to  be  reckoned 
with,  and  he  was  not  one  to  cry  "  Fool !  "  at  a  lost 
chance. 

So  far  in  frigid  common-sense  the  sensual  man  ; 
but  whence  came  that  tap-tapping  of  the  spectral 
finger  ?  Norman  thought  he  knew.  Yes :  he 
knew !  he  knew  !  There  are  women  and  women. 
It  was  from  that  great  white  patch  in  his  existence 
that  the  warning  came.  Constantia  and  her  chil- 
210 


Hot  Summer. 

dren  !  The  heaven  of  Constantia's  love  and  trust 
was  capable  of  turning  into  hell. 

Norman,  seated  in  his  study,  brought  his  hand 
down  amongst  the  Armstrong  papers  with  passionate 
emphasis. 

"  Before  heaven  !  "  cried  he,  in  the  inmost  parts 
of  his  soul,  "  her  confidence  is  not  broken.  I  am 
her  true  husband  in  all  that  part  of  me  that  belongs 
to  her,  and  the  true  father  of  her  children.  She 
shall  not  be  hurt :  I  have  the  strength  to  cherish  and 
protect  her  even  from  myself.  But  men  are  not  as 
women.  Nature,  not  I,  is  responsible.  Her  purity 
is  not  for  me.  The  sweetness  of  the  flesh  —  what 
does  she  know  of  it,  save  as  something  subordinated 
to  and  connected  with  her  great  sublime  protective 
love  of  me?  But  flesh  as  flesh?  This  fire  in  the 
blood  —  this  urgent  necessity  of  physical  passion  — 
she  knows  nothing  of  that.  When  a  woman  like 
Rosalie  beckons,  let  me  not  name  the  two  names 
in  a  breath  !  Constantia  ?  No  —  one  is  her  rival. 
The  one  thing  precludes  the  other.  Constantia? 
—  the  total  distinction  between  my  feeling  for  her 
and  my  feelings  for  that  other !  No  domain  of 
Constantia's  is  trespassed  on.  I  call  heaven  to 
witness  I  am  her  true  husband.  This  variation  in 
my  nature  is  not  hers  —  nor  the  best  of  me.  It 
passes.  I  slacken  this  thirst,  appease  this  craze, 
and  who  is  the  worse  ?  It  is  just  the  habit  of  the 
man.  My  own  mind  judges  this  thing,  and  is  its 
own  arbiter.  Constantia  shall  not  be  hurt  or 

211 


Life  the  Accuser. 

touched.  As  to  Rosalie  —  man's  evil  before  which 
he  inevitably  falls,  and  which  he  as  inevitably  tri- 
umphs over  and  casts  off !  —  as  to  Rosalie,  who 
knows  that  I  am  the  first  V 

The  handle  of  the  door  turned.  Norman  glanced 
over  his  shoulder.  It  was  Evan  who  entered.  He 
carried  a  letter. 

"  The  evening  post?  "  said  Norman,  holding  his 
hand  out  mechanically. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  a  bit  excited.  A  queerish  thing 
has  turned  up." 

"  Anything  for  a  break.  I  'm  wearying  over  the 
Armstrong  property.  I  'm  like  a  lad  with  his  Co- 
lenso,  doing  sums  for  a  place  in  class  and  solving 
questions  in  proportion." 

"Is  it  settled?" 

"  On  paper." 

"  I  'm  afraid  this  will  upset  it  a  trifle ;  I  Ve  got 
an  odd  bit  of  news  from  Australia." 

"  Not  the  mines  ?  " 

"  That 's  it." 

Norman  sat  silent,  stroking  his  moustache  thought- 
fully. 

"  I  'm  inclined  to  question  the  wisdom  of  my 
hearing  this  news  at  all.  You  think  it  important?" 

Evan  nodded.  Norman  got  up  and  went  to  the 
window.  He  experienced  a  feeling  of  invincible 
dislike  to  hearing  the  news. 

"Ignorance  may  be  better  than  knowledge  in 
some  instances,"  said  he.  "Who  knows  that  I 

212 


Hot  Summer. 

shall  make  the  division  the  better  or  the  worse  for 
the  news  ?  " 

Evan  remained  in  respectful  silence. 

"  Well !  You  Ve  read  it.  What  is  your  opinion  ?  " 

"I  think  that  you  should  see  it." 

"There  spoke  Evan  Dayntree,"  said  Norman, 
with  a  short  laugh. 

"Hand  it  over.     No!     Read  it  aloud." 

Evan  obeyed. 

"  This  is  the  passage,"  said  he  — 

" '  By  the  way,  I  Ve  just  heard  that  Sherman's 
Reward  has  turned  out  a  wild  cat '  " 

"What  in  God's  name  does  that  mean?  "  inter- 
rupted Norman,  irritably. 

"  He  means  the  mines  have  proved  a  take-in  or 
a  swindle." 

"  Phew  !    Well !     Get  on." 

" '  —  and  yet  they  have  been  splendidly  reported 
on  by  the  great  authority  here.  But  I  think  people 
are  beginning  to  find  out  the  games  of  those  big 
bugs  here;  certainly  fellows  on  the  spot  would 
think  not  twice  but  many  times  before  putting  their 
money  into  concerns  which  had  been  glowingly 
reported  on  by  that  particular  authority  or  his 
colleagues ' 

"  There 's  more  ;  but  that 's  all  that  matters." 

Norman  stretched  his  hand  for  the  letter. 

"Who's  this  fellow?"  asked  he,  turning  to  the 
signature  sharply. 

"A  chum  of  my  own.     I  met  him  out  there." 
213 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"You  trust  him?" 

"  I  do." 

"  Oh  !  that 's  all  very  well.  I  mean  —  has  he  a 
head  on  his  shoulders?  " 

That  was  so,  Evan  said. 

Norman  drummed  with  his  paper-knife  on  the  table. 

"  This  news  just  now  is  hugely  inconvenient,"  said 
he  ;  "  you  understand  that  it  has  no  meaning  what- 
ever without  corroboration  ?  " 

Evan  nodded. 

44  I  have  means  of  getting  it  either  corroborated 
or  contradicted,  and  I  shall  see  to  it  that  inquiries 
are  made  in  the  proper  way.  Can  you  stop  that 
young  fellow's  tongue  or  pen  ?  " 

"  Oh  !     He  only  lets  on  to  me." 

"Well!  stop  it,"  said  Norman,  again  with  the 
note  of  irritation.  "  And  you  will  keep  this  to 
yourself?  " 

Again  Evan  nodded. 

"  How  was  the  market  to-day  ?  " 

"  Shares  still  rising." 

"Very  well.  For  the  present  we  dismiss  the 
subject.  Now  for  a  smoke.  I  fancy  you  are  spoil- 
ing for  a  talk." 

"So  I  am,  and  that's  the  truth,"  said  Evan; 
"  my  pneumatic  dredging-boat  is  to  be  tried  shortly 
at  Mill  wall  Docks.  A  lot  of  engineering  fellows  are 
interested.  If  it 's  a  success,  it 's  so  much  to  the 
good  for  me.  It 's  —  it 's  well  for  a  fellow  to  have 
two  strings  to  his  bow." 

214 


Hot  Summer. 

He  came  forward  and  sat  down  on  a  sofa,  but 
looked  far  too  energetically  restless  to  lounge. 
Norman  in  a  more  leisurely  frame  lit  a  cigar,  and 
threw  himself  back  on  an  arm-chair. 

"  You  're  pushing  on  then,  Evan  ?  "  said  he,  look- 
ing at  the  young  man  with  kind  paternal  eyes. 

"  I  am  so.  I  don 't  mean  to  turn  out  a  bad 
investment,  you  know." 

"  Well !  what  are  your  two  strings  ?  " 

"  One 's  a  bit  more  fancy  than  the  other.  Sewer- 
age and  dredging  are  my  line,  I  'm  convinced.  I 
can't  see  a  river  and  a  town  without  my  head 
begins  planning.  I  shall,  maybe,  offer  for  a  posi- 
tion as  practical  engineer  under  the  Board  of 
Works.  The  drainage  system  over  yonder  !  Lord  ! 
They're  in  an  awful  muddle  —  pouring  filth  into 
the  river,  and  then  churning  it  up  with  pumps. 
I  ?ve  got  a  notion  or  two  about  it  which  really 
fellows  might  as  well  try ;  for  they  can't  be  worse 
off  than  they  are.  It  *s  enough  to  make  one  sit 
down  and  weep." 

"  All  right !  "  said  Norman,  laughing  delightedly  ; 
"  put  the  old  M.  B.  W.  straight  if  you  can  !  I  '11 
lend  you  all  the  interest  I  have  for  the  place." 

"  But  that  is  n't  all/'  said  Evan,  a  trifle  shame- 
facedly. 

"Ah!  The  other  string  —  the  more  embroi- 
dered article  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes !     I  'm  afraid  you  '11  think  it   a  bit 

fanciful.     And  yet " 

215 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Norman  took  his  cigar  *  from  his  mouth  and 
looked  at  the  young  man.  He  was  sitting  up 
quite  straight,  his  face  full  of  light  and  colour  and 
the  desire  of  the  man  to  attain,  and  the  hope  and 
longing  whose  end  lies  in  the  achievement  of  hand 
and  brain. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Norman  softly,  his  heart  full  of 
the  pride  and  affection  he  had  in  the  young  fellow 
—  a  pride  and  affection  which  was  hardly  second 
to  that  he  had  for  his  own  son  Ronald. 

"  I  'm  honestly  desirous  of  doing  my  duty," 
returned  Evan,  "  and  if  it  turns  out  to  be  London 
and  the  Thames,  it 's  got  to  be  that.  And  I  don't 
intend  to  fail,  either.  But  —  it 's  a  big  stagnating, 
is  n't  it,  to  stick  here  always  ?  " 

"  I  thought  we  had  got  over  our  Wanderjahre." 

"  It  is  n't  a  Wanderjahr.  It 's  a  big  scheme. 
You  see  they  're  in  difficulties  over  there  at  Suez  — " 
Norman  laid  down  his  cigar  and  listened  atten- 
tively ;  "  they  Ve  prolonged  the  old  channel  eight 
hundred  metres;  and  they've  got  that  dredging- 
machine  in  France  for  working  in  the  open  sea. 
And  a  very  pretty  invention  too,  by  all  I  can  hear. 
But  in  spite  of  all  this,  the  opposition  of  the  Break- 
water continues  to  arrest  and  deposit  the  flow  of 
mud  quicker  than  they  can  clear  it.  It 's  a  diffi- 
culty only  lessened  and  postponed,  not  overcome, 
and  —  I  'd  like  to  have  a  shy  at  it." 

"  But,  my  dear  lad  !  " 

"Oh,  I  know!  I've  got  a  cheek!  Well,  I 
216 


Hot  Summer. 

have.  For  I  've  been  seeing  how  the  thing  can  be 
worked." 

In  proportion  as  Evan  glowed,  Norman's  face 
became  overcast. 

"What  do  you  propose?  What  do  you  want?" 
said  he. 

"  For  you  to  get  somebody's  ear,  and  have  me 
sent  out  there  to  look  at  the  thing  on  the  spot,  and 
try  and  see  if  my  notion  fits." 

Norman  sighed. 

"Of  course,  Evan,  anything  you  wish.  But  I 
had  a  hope,  —  the  honest  truth  is,  I'm  loath  to 
lose  you  again.  I  hoped  you  were  going  to  settle 
down  in  England." 

Evan  leaned  forward,  his  hands  worked  ner- 
vously, his  downcast  face  suffused  with  the  tender 
regard  in  which  he  held  his  kinsman.  But  he 
spoke  to  his  point  firmly  enough. 

"  I  shall  try  for  the  Thames  (and  get  it  too)  if 
the  other  is  hopeless.  But  if  I  don't  use  every 
effort  to  realise  my  Suez  idea  first,  I  shall  be  a  man 
thrown  at  the  very  outset  of  life  into  a  restless,  dis- 
satisfied state.  If  I  take  up  the  lesser  job  while  my 
head 's  fermenting  with  the  bigger,  I  'm  that  much 
lost  energy  to  the  world.  You  see,  I  have  n't  tried 
myself  properly  yet.  A  fellow  has  a  kind  of 
curiosity  to  know  what  he 's  made  of." 

"  I  have  n't  the  least  idea  of  standing  in  your 
way,"  said  Norman,  cordially ;  "  I  'm  a  bit  disap- 
pointed if  I  'm  to  lose  you  again,  I  acknowledge. 
217 


Life  the  Accuser. 

But  if  there 's  anything  in  your  plan,  my  best  efforts 
shall  go  towards  forwarding  it.7' 

"  Very  well,"  said  Evan,  looking  up  with  an  ex- 
traordinary brightness  in  his  face ;  "  and  thank 
you.  You  sha'n't  regret  it  if  I  go  for  Suez." 

Within  the  same  moon,  Mr.  Edward  Armstrong 
met  with  an  adventure.  He  possessed  a  bicycle  — 
one  of  the  high  spidery  affairs  on  which  young  men 
risked  their  necks  twenty  years  ago.  And  pending 
the  settlement  of  the  Armstrong  property,  he  de- 
termined to  work  off  the  irksomeness  of  uncertainty 
by  a  week's  tour  on  wheels.  As  luck  would  have 
it,  in  the  course  of  his  run,  the  exquisite  weather 
which  had  astonished  the  hearts  of  Englishmen 
during  the  summer  and  early  autumn  broke  up,  and 
once  more  there  returned  upon  the  nation  the 
accustomed  portion  of  cloudy  skies,  wet  sheets  of 
mist,  pelting  downpours,  and  storms  of  wind ;  and 
the  heavens,  royally  emptying  their  contents  alike 
upon  the  just  and  unjust,  deluged,  amongst  other 
items,  the  form  of  Mr.  Edward  Armstrong,  who 
bore  the  affliction  but  ill,  and  instead  of  reflecting 
that  it  "  was  good  for  the  country,"  swore  audibly 
at  the  too  open  skies. 

"  Damn  the  whole  thing  ! "  said  he,  in  an  ecstasy 
of  fury ;  "  it 's  no  go.  I  can't  get  on  to  Portsmouth 
to-night ;  I  Ve  got  to  put  up  at  the  nearest  inn." 

And  presently  he  saw  in  the  hollow  of  the  long, 
lonely  road  the  red  roof  of  a  building  with  a  sigii- 
218 


Hot  Summer. 

post  swinging  before  it.  It  was  an  inn  of  old 
foundation,  standing  in  a  deserted  part  of  the 
country,  where  it  had  been  formerly  a  coaching- 
station.  The  building  was  low,  but  commodious, 
of  two  stories  and  a  garret,  standing  close  upon  the 
road,  and  having,  on  the  opposite  side,  a  row  of 
seven  old  trees,  with  a  bench  for  travellers  placed 
under  them.  By  the  time  he  reached  it,  Edward's 
clothes  clung  like  a  skin  ;  he  leapt  from  his  bicycle, 
and,  leaving  it  under  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  he 
entered  the  bar  to  inquire  for  a  room.  One  only 
was  to  be  had,  and  that  was  at  his  service.  It 
proved  to  be  a  large,  airy  bedroom  over  the  bar- 
parlour,  and  looking  out  on  the  trees  and  the  road. 
It  was  not  particularly  lively,  but  it  was  better  than 
the  dreariness  outside,  and  he  was  soon  settled  in 
it,  drying  at  a  comfortable  wood  fire,  and  with 
tolerable  food  before  him.  The  only  amusement 
was  to  listen  to  the  sounds  from  the  bar  and  the 
road ;  a  few  folk  had  come  in  for  shelter,  and  he 
heard  laughter  and  a  song  or  two.  Presently  a  cart 
drove  up,  and  the  driver  leapt  out,  calling  to  the 
landlord  — - 

"  Nice  weather  for  your  business  !  " 

The  door  of  the  bar  swung  on  its  hinges,  and 
nothing  was  to  be  heard  but  undistinguishable 
murmurs ;  then  it  opened  again  and  the  cart  drove 
off.  After  a  long  interval  of  silence,  during  which 
Edward  almost  fell  asleep,  a  wagon,  full  of  folk 
wet  and  weary  after  a  day's  ride,  came  up.  The 
219 


Life  the  Accuser. 

driver  hailed  the  landlord  with  a  whistle  ;  he  stepped 
to  the  door  and  stood  on  the  threshold ;  and  some 
rough  chaff  ensued. 

"  Anybody  as  '11  stand  us  four  bottles  of  whisky 
shall  have  my  sister,"  said  a  weary  male  voice  from 
the  wagon. 

The  women  in  the  wagon  shrieked.  Then  he 
understood  that  glasses  were  brought  out  to  the 
company,  and  that  they  were  sipping  and  sharing 
together,  while  the  horse  champed  its  bit  and 
scraped  with  its  foot.  Coarse  jokes  passed  amongst 
the  men,  and  the  women  laughed. 

Empty  and  mirthless  and  comfortless  it  sounded, 
with  the  drip-drip  from  the  eaves  in  between,  and 
the  impatient  scrape  of  the  horse's  hoof  on  the 
road.  The  same  male  voice  that  had  spoken 
before  —  the  weariness  and  wet  of  the  night  in 
it  —  spoke  again. 

"  Well !  We  'd  better  keep  toddlin',  or  the  old 
'oss  'ull  feel  cold." 

"Thank  God,  it's  fair  now,"  said  a  woman's 
voice,  "  pretty  near." 

The  wheels  once  more  were  in  motion,  and  the 
wagon  rattled  away.  The  bar-door  closed,  and  the 
voices  and  laughter  became  again  a  distant  mur- 
mur, with  the  dripping  of  the  eaves  the  sound 
closest  to  the  ear.  Outside  the  uttermost  silence 
of  the  country  fell.  Edward  drew  his  chair  to  the 
fire,  stretched  out  his  feet  to  the  blaze,  and  lit  a 
pipe.  It  began  to  get  late,  and  already  stragglers 
220 


Hot  Summer. 

had  said  good-night  and  were  leaving  the  bar. 
Suddenly  again  the  hoofs  of  horses  clattered  over 
the  road  and  stopped  before  the  inn ;  and  again  a 
murmur  of  voices  began. 

Something  in  that  murmur  caught  Edward's 
ear  and  shook  him  into  wide-awake  interest.  It 
smacked  —  small  secret  washed  by  the  cold,  wet 
atmosphere  —  of  a  totally  different  existence  from 
this  of  the  rough  habitues  of  the  lonely  inn,  and 
drew  before  his  mind  on  a  thread  of  association 
pictures  of  a  habit  of  life  removed  from  anything 
likely  to  shelter  within  the  homely  walls. 

He  got  up  and  lounged  to  the  window.  The 
row  of  the  seven  trees  opposite  were  distinguished 
from  the  night  only  by  their  lumpish  darkness,  and 
hardly  could  he  have  seen  that  horses  stood  beneath 
them,  save  that  the  yet  unextinguished  lights  from 
the  bar  caught  the  harness  and  the  shining  sides 
and  limbs  of  the  beasts.  The  forms  of  Ihe  persons 
upon  them  he  was  unable  to  make  out  clearly,  but 
he  guessed  the  one  closest  under  the  shelter  of  the 
trees  to  be  a  boy.  The  one  nearest  him  a  ray  of 
light  from  the  inn  just  showed,  and  no  more,  as  a 
man,  as  he  leapt  from  his  horse  and  went  to  the 
bar.  Edward's  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the  motion- 
less figure  seated  on  the  second  horse,  hardly  trace- 
able against  the  black  of  the  trees.  A  conversation 
maintained  in  a  low  voice  ensued  between  the 
traveller  who  had  alighted  and  the  landlord  of  the 
inn,  after  which  the  latter  went  quickly  back  to 
221 


Life  the  Accuser. 

the  interior.  Then  the  traveller  returned  to  his  horse 
and  leaned  against  it,  apparently  waiting  a  reply ; 
as  he  did  so,  he  struck  a  match  and  made  as  though 
to  light  a  cigar,  his  hands  curved  to  his  mouth 
to  protect  the  flame. 

So  tiny  an  act,  so  small  a  spark,  revealed  him  to 
the  watching  eyes  above. 

The  match,  helped  by  his  breath,  flared  up  and 
illumined  his  face ;  the  light  caught  the  tips  of  his 
features,  hung  in  a  curve  over  the  length  of  his 
moustache,  and  traced  the  line  of  eyebrow  and 
the  peculiarity  of  the  fall  of  the  eyelids.  Even  the 
refined  fingers  and  the  signet  ring  on  one  of  them 
were  revealed  by  the  little  flare  of  the  tell-tale 
match.  It  was  Norman  Dayntree  who  stood  there 
leaning  against  his  horse  and  lighting  a  cigarette 
for  momentary  comfort  against  the  clinging  cold  of 
the  night. 

"If  this  isn't  a  rum  start!"  murmured , Edward 
to  himself  as  he  flung  out  of  the  chamber. 

Close  to  his  bedroom  door  was  the  head  of  the 
back  stairs  of  the  inn.  He  assumed  that  they 
would  lead  him  straight  to  the  region  of  the  bar, 
and  dashed  down  them.  He  passed  the  bar- 
parlour,  where  a  crony  or  two  of  the  landlord's 
still  sat,  and  the 'landlord's  pipe  lay  on  the  table 
awaiting  his  return,  and  he  pushed  on  into  the  bar 
by  the  back  passage.  A  broad  stream  of  light  ran 
into  the  road  from  the  open  door,  but  the  travellers 
kept  steadily  in  the  gloom  under  the  trees.  Edward, 

222 


Hot  Summer. 

however,  needed  no  further  testimony  than  that  of 
the  match.  He  pushed  by  the  landlord  and  his 
wife,  who  were  talking  in  the  passage,  and  who 
glanced  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  I  tell  'ee  I  can't  do  it,  not  if  they  was  to  give 
h'ever  so ! " 

He  got  to  the  door  and  thrust  his  head  out,  and 
the  man  leaning  by  the  horse  looked  up. 

"Dayntree  !  "  cried  Edward. 

But  as  he  spoke  the  landlord  put  him  aside,  and 
going  out  into  the  road  interposed  his  figure  between 
the  traveller  and  himself.  The  former,  however, 
was  already  on  his  horse  again,  his  hand  on  the 
bridle  of  his  companion's.  They  turned,  and,  creep- 
ing under  the  shadow  of  the  thorns,  began  a  back 
journey  up  the  lonely  road  down  which  Edward 
had  preceded  them  that  afternoon.  In  the  turning 
of  the  horses  it  was  impossible,  in  spite  of  the  black- 
ness of  the  night*  but  that  some  rays  from  the  lights 
of  the  open  passage  should  shoot  over  them,  and 
Edward  distinguished  the  second  horseman  as  the 
boy  he  had  surmised.  Dayntree's  son  perhaps? 
He  slowly  remounted  the  stairs  to  his  chamber. 
No  conception  of  any  boy  he  had  ever  seen  would 
exactly  fit  into  that  slender  reed-like  figure.  The 
presentment  of  it  —  momentary  obscure  though  it 
had  been  —  became  clearer  to  his  mind ;  it  sank 
upon  his  mental  sight  with  increasing  suggestion 
and  hint,  until  at  last,  while  his  fingers  fumbled 
between  his  tobacco-pouch  and  pipe,  the  identity 
223 


Life  the  Accuser. 

of  it  stood  out  to  his  apprehension  with  tell-tale 
vividness,  and  scarcely  needed  that  he  should  give 
it  a  name.  What  is  there  in  the  personality  which 
beneath  all  disguises,  is  its  own  self-confession,  and 
renders  up  its  secret  in  some  slightest  line  or  tiniest 
bend  and  turn  of  the  form? 

"  By  all  the  powers  that  are  !  "  exclaimed  Edward, 
letting  fall  (he  pouch  and  pipe  into  the  fender,  and 
throwing  back  his  head  with  a  great  cry. 


224 


PART   II. 

COLD    WINTER, 


225 


CHAPTER  I. 

ONE  morning  two  coroneted  envelopes  lay  on 
the  Dayntrees'  breakfast-table.  They  contained 
invitations  to  a  Cinderella-dance,  given  by  Mrs. 
Trelyon's  great  relative,  and,  the  occasion  being  in- 
formal, the  young  daughter  Constance  was  included. 

Warrenne  Court  lay,  as  has  been  said,  in  the 
adjoining  county,  and  arrangements  had  to  be  made 
for  the  accommodation  of  many  guests  and  their 
servants  for  the  night.  The  place  was  very  old,  and 
full  of  historical  interest,  but  the  tower  only  of  the 
original  building  was  left  standing;  it  had  several 
small  chambers,  in  one  of  which  it  was  averred  the 
Black  Prince  had  passed  a  night.  The  main  body 
of  the  building  was  also  of  great  age,  and  here  were 
the  Anne  a  Boleyn  rooms ;  late  in  the  eighteenth 
century  a  new  wing  had  been  added,  which  increased 
the  comfort  of  the  interior,  but  spoiled  the  unity  of 
the  architectural  effect.  Pressure  of  space  demanded 
careful  distribution  of  the  guests,  and  in  the  new 
wing  Constantia  and  her  daughter  occupied  a  single 
room,  while  Norman  was  accommodated  with  a 
small  chamber  in  the  middle  portion.  Rosalie  took 
a  room  in  the  same  wing  as  Constantia,  Mrs  Trelyon 
227 


Life  the  Accuser. 

as  a  relative  having  one  of  the  state  bedrooms 
allotted  to  her,  with  a  small  adjoining  closet  for 
her  maid. 

Evan  was  also  at  the  house.  He  got  one  of  the 
little-used  rooms  in  the  tower.  To  him  the  evening 
of  the  dance  was  tinged  in  the  expectation  but  by 
one  thought,  and  that  was  spelled  in  the  word 
"  Rosalie." 

Of  late  Evan's  elasticity  had  flagged.  The  future 
lay  still  before  him  in  landscape  dimensions,  but  the 
golden  atmosphere  was  fading.  He  had  reached 
that  knotty  stage  in  love  when  an  injurious  sense 
of  thwarting  mingles  with  the  sense  of  blessed 
expansion. 

But  he  set  his  teeth.  He  was  not,  he  thought, 
to  become  the  bondsman  of  any  woman,  —  not  the 
best  and  fairest.  If  she  would  not  return  his  feel- 
ing, he  had  it  in  him  to  weep  tears  of  blood ;  but 
the  dreams  to  which  she  had  fired  him  remained. 
From  them  he  was  not  to  flinch.  Wonderful  hand, 
in  whose  palm  lay  the  secret  of  his  career  ! 

No  finer-looking  young  fellow  than  he  entered 
the  ball-room  that  evening :  he  could  lay  no  claim 
to  be  named  "  handsome ; "  it  was  the  vein  and 
character  of  the  man  expressed  on  his  outward 
form  that  made  people  turn  to  look  at  him,  not 
once,  but  twice ;  he  was  fortunate  in  possessing  an 
harmonious  correspondence  between  body  and  soul. 

"I  hope  soon  to  see  your  card  full,"  said  Lady 
Warrenne,  noticing  it  was  empty. 
228 


Cold  Winter. 

"  I  shall  do  my  duty  —  yes,"  said  he  shyly,  hiding 
it  under  his  palm.     "  I  'm  just  waiting  a  bit." 

He  had  all  the  whims  and  delicacies  of  a  lover, 
and  felt  that  no  one's  name  was  to  go  down  on  his 
card  before  Rosalie's.  Parting  from  Lady  War- 
renne,  he  stood  back  against  the  wall  and  watched 
for  Rosalie's  appearance,  with  her  hardly  less  beau- 
tiful mother.  It  was  a  rare  lover-like  sentiment 
that  held  him  there  dumb  and  silent  until  she  should 
arrive.  When  at  last  she  appeared,  an  expression 
almost  of  pain  shot  over  his  face.  Her  beauty  was 
an  eternal  surprise ;  it  had  a  quality  of  the  unex- 
pected —  a  supreme  charm ;  moreover,  she  pos- 
sessed that  exquisite  bloom  of  youth  —  that  delicate, 
evanescent  something  —  which  is  by  no  means 
always  the  attribute  of  young  creatures.  Upon  this 
occasion  she  had  chosen  to  wear  simple  virginal 
white,  and  it  added  to  her  slim  grace  a  poignant 
touch  of  pathos.  Evan  was  not  conscious  of  having 
in  himself  anything  to  match  with  this  flower  of 
girlhood  ;  to  the  young,  beauty  is  not  evanescent ; 
they  have  not  the  feeling  of  the  transitory,  the  stamp 
of  immortality  rests  upon  all,  and  this  gives  the 
edge  to  their  emotion.  He  walked  straight  up 
to  her. 

"  Rosalie  Trelyon  looks  very  beautiful  to-night," 
said  Constantia  to  her  husband. 

"  Where?  "  said  Norman,  turning  his  head  about. 

Constantia  experienced  a  sudden  faintness  of  the 
heart.     She  had  caught  her  husband's  eyes  fixed 
229 


Life  the  Accuser. 

on  the  girl  —  there  was  something  in  his  look  —  she 
hated  herself  for  noticing  it,  and  had  rushed  on  the 
remark  in  her  eagerness  to  erase  the  impression  and 
establish  herself  by  his  side  on  the  same  mental 
plane,  whatever  it  might  be.  Of  late  the  ease  of 
perfect  accord  had  given  place  to  terribly  groping 
moments.  The  delicate  adjustment  of  long  rela- 
tionship, sensitive  to  disturbance  and  Norman's 
hasty  subterfuge,  was  worse  than  a  repulse.  The 
room  was  darkened  to  her  eyes,  and  the  harmonious 
murmur  of  cultivated  voices  sounded  dissonant. 
All  evening,  turn  where  she  would,  by  some  cruel 
magnetism  her  glance  encountered  that  exquisite 
form,  with  the  poetised  grace  of  its  movements,  and 
that  lovely  face,  rendered  every  moment  more 
beautiful  by  the  exercise  of  the  dance.  If  she  was 
not  looking  at  it,  it  swam  before  her  brain.  Her 
interest  in  everything  else  was  clouded  over ;  even 
her  daughter's  childlike  happiness  and  her  whis- 
pered assurances  of  enjoyment  failed  to  create  one 
ripple  of  responsive  gladness.  Her  heart  had  be- 
come too  heavy  to  stand  at  the  level  of  every-day 
feeling.  Just  now  she  saw  Rosalie  against  the  wall, 
her  head  thrown  back  a  little,  and  her  hand  wafting 
a  feather  fan  to  and  fro. 

Constantia  tried  not  to  look  at  her,  but  her  eyes 
stole  back  again  and  again.  She  seemed  to  herself 
to  shrivel  in  her  seat  under  the  influence  of  the 
girl's  beauty.  At  last,  when  her  eyes  ran  once  more 
towards  the  fatal  spot,  she  caught  from  between  the 
230 


Cold  Winter. 

dark-lashed  lids  a  glance  directed  to  herself.  It 
was  a  mixture  of  defiance,  cold  amusement,  and 
curiosity ;  it  would  have  been  patently  vulgar,  but 
that  a  second  afterwards  the  white  brow  crumpled 
with  a  shade  of  trouble.  At  that  moment  Evan 
stepped  up  to  the  girl  —  the  man  next  her  moved 
unwillingly  away.  Constantia  raised  her  hand  to 
her  eyes  for  a  brief  second. 

"  My  God  ! "  murmured  she ;  "  what  is  it  makes 
me  entertain  such  frightful  thoughts  ?  " 

"  This  is  my  dance,"  Evan  had  said  briefly. 

He  took  the  place  of  the  former  partner,  his  eyes 
permitted  themselves  to  wander  over  her  for  a 
moment ;  then  he  raised  them  again,  and  leaned 
against  the  wall  by  her  side. 

"Now  tell  me,"  said  she,  "have  you  a  topic? 
I  'm  tired  of  hearing  that  this  is  a  splendid  floor  for 
dancing." 

Evan  smiled  at  her  sprightly  mood. 

"  Oh  ! "  said  he ;  "  that  sort  of  thing  is  a  short 
cut  across  awkward  moments." 

"  What  business  have  people  with  awkward  mo- 
ments ?  God's  sun  shines  in  all ;  I  mean  to  have  a 
respite.  How  are  your  schemes?" 

"  A  big  topic  for  a  ball-room." 

"  Even  in  a  ball-room,  each  man  to  his  own 
crotchet.  You  see,  I  remember  yours.  Of  late  you 
have  talked  of  Africa  and  Africa.  When  I  see  you, 
I  see  Africa.  When  I  see  a  map  of  Africa,  I  see 
you." 

231 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Evan  frowned  a  little,  then  looked  at  her  with 
light  in  his  eyes. 

"That's  well,"  said  he,  "for  it  is  precisely  the 
same  upon  my  part.  When  I  see  Africa  I  see  you 
and  when  I  see  you  I  see  Africa." 

The  notion  touched  her  fancy. 

"  But  I  can't  believe  that,"  said  she. 

"  Indeed,  yes.  My  words  were  not  empty.  But — 
Do  you  want  to  dance  ?  " 

"It  depends  —  on  the  quality  of  the  con- 
versation." 

"Then  come,"  said  Evan;  "I  must  try  to 
please." 

He  offered  his  arm.  Rosalie  took  it.  As  they 
walked  down  the  room  together,  once,  relying  on 
his  guidance,  she  closed  her  lids  wearily.  He 
found  a  comfortable  nook  in  a  recess  on  the  stair- 
case, and  seated  himself  by  her  side. 

"  But  you  're  tired  !  "  said  he. 

The  girl's  eyes  had  closed  again ;  when  she 
opened  them,  it  was  upon  a  face  bent  towards  her 
in  solicitude. 

"I  am  not,"  said  she.  "Go  on  about  Africa. 
Break  the  deadly  monotony  if  you  can." 

"Is  it  so  monotonous?"  said  he.  "I  haven't 
felt  that.  But  if  you  like  it,  we  will  talk  of  Africa, 
the  world's  final  chance  of  adventure." 

"  I  like  adventures,  but  hate  the  word  final.     I 
wish  we  were  n't  so  limited  !     There  never  seems 
enough  for  me  —  of  time  or  anything  else." 
232 


Cold  Winter. 

"  Oh,  there  's  some  fun  left  in  this  old  globe  yet. 
Africa  is  practically  a  new  world  to  explore.  What 
I  complain  of  is  that  this  adventure  should  be  left 
to  the  private  bully.  I  hate  to  think  of  some  swash- 
buckling career,  run  like  a  festering  wound  into  the 
side  of  the  new  land." 

"  What  would  you  have,  then?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  to  a  great  many  minds  Africa 
is  nothing  whatever  but  a  '  market,'  to  another 
an  open  ground  for  the  experimental  traveller. 
The  first  means  a  sort  of  glorified  thimble-rig- 
ging; the  second  mere  filibustering.  I  wish  that 
some  great  and  capable  mind  would  set  to  work 
to  hit  on  plans  for  developing  Africa,  for  Africa's 
own  sake." 

"Who  can?" 

"  Well,  I  picture  to  myself  a  man  with  tremen- 
dous all-round  sympathies,  and  a  big  constructive 
brain  to  matchj  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
subject " 

"  But  how  would  he  get  that?  " 

"  Oh,  he  'd  have  rubbed  it  in,  you  know,  out  of 
books  to  begin  with.  Then  he'd  have  studied 
colonial  policy  —  and  that 's  a  bigger  business. 
Above  all,  he  'd  have  knocked  about  the  world  him- 
self, and  he  'd  have  a  commercial  turn  of  the  right 
kind  and  a  knack  of  choosing  the  right  fellow  for  a 
job.  And  then,  you  know,  he  'd  somehow  have 
managed  to  shake  himself  out  of  the  exclusively 
jingo  British  point  of  view." 
233 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Rosalie  ;  "  I  am  interested,  this  is 
a — great  man?" 

"Pretty  fair,"  said  Evan.  "Then  imagine  such 
a  man  Secretary  for  the  Colonies,  with  a  good 
Government  in  office  and  a  workable  majority  in 
the  House  at  a  favourable  national  moment." 

Rosalie  closed  her  fan  and  turned  her  face  towards 
him.  Her  eyes  expressed  an  eager  growing  atten- 
tion. There  was  the  hint  of  excitement. 

"  Go  on  :  I  am  interested,"  she  repeated. 

"You  mustn't  take  it  all  for  practical  truth,"  said 
Evan,  smiling.  "  It 's  a  sort  of  fairy  tale,  I  'm  afraid. 
A  Secretary  does  not  possess  any  great  determining 
power,  you  must  remember ;  but  if  he  is  a  man  of 
influential  character,  his  position  trebles  his  influence. 
I  'm  in  favour  of  such  a  man  initiating  a  nationally 
organised  expedition  for  exploring  purposes." 

"  And  after  the  expedition  ?  " 

"  Then  we  know  a  little  where  we  are,  and  how 
the  work  is  to  begin.  It  ought  to  be  a  sort  of 
missionary  enterprise,  with  a  total  reconsideration 
of  the  missionary  system ;  that  is  to  say,  it  should 
be  something  quite  different  from  an  attempt  to  im- 
pose our  various  creeds  and  customs  here  and  there  ; 
but  as  to  the  commercial  side,  that  ought  to  be  far- 
seeing  enough  not  to  assume  a  grab-trie-booty 
attitude.  It  would  n't  if  we  organised  our  colonial 
policy  from  the  beginning  on  some  national  plan 
thought  out  by  experts  and  schemed  for  an  all- 
round  good." 

234 


Cold  Winter. 

Rosalie  had  listened  intently.  There  was  an 
interest  which  surprised  the  speaker.  It  warmed 
and  thrilled  him,  and  the  intellectual  dreams  in 
which  he  had  of  late  been  indulging  escaped  his 
lips  in  readier  words.  He  noted  with  exultation 
that  a  whole  dance  slipped  by  and  that  she  did  not 
remark  it.  Her  partner  hunting  in  the  distance 
failed  to  discover  her.  When  at  last  Evan's  elo- 
quence found  a  period,  she  softly  opened  her  fan 
and  spread  it  like  a  great  white  wing  as  shelter 
over  her  face.  The  pause,  Evan  thought,  was 
more  delicious  than  the  talk  had  been.  At  last  she 
spoke. 

"And  this — little  one  man  who  is  to  have  the 
big  idea?" 

"  A  man  is  never  little,"  said  Evan,  softly.  "  One 
chap  always  sets  the  ball  rolling." 

"Who  is  he?" 

She  moved  the  fan  and  darted  a  swift  bird-like 
glance  towards  him.  It  flew  to  his  soul.  He  made 
shift  to  shake  his  head  gently  with  a  smile.  Then 
her  eyes  dropped  until  he  saw  the  lashes  lying  on 
her  cheek. 

"  Are  you  the  man  ?  "  said  she. 

A  tiny  note  of  derision  pricked  his  heart  like  a  pin. 
He  struck  his  fingers  together  lightly  and  slowly 
twice  before  speaking. 

"  I  never  thought  of  myself  for  one  moment  as  the 
man,"  said  he,  quietly,  "  but  I  was  thinking  of  my- 
self in  connection  with  matters  of  the  kind.  I  Ve 
235 


Life  the  Accuser. 

a  notion  that  if  an  engineer  is  wanted  Suez-way,  for 
example,  I  '11  have  a  shy  at  it."  Again  she  stole  a 
glance  at  him.  Her  purpose  had  been  to  draw 
denial  from  him  only  as  a  preliminary  to  the  name 
of  the  man  whom  she  surmised  within  his  mind. 
She  had  a  need  to  know  with  certainty  that  his  idea 
corresponded  with  her  hope.  Assuredly  he  was 
speaking  of  a  well-known  individuality ;  she  longed 
to  snatch  the  name  —  the  name  already  syllabled 
within  her  heart.  He  kept  his  profile  immobile 
while  her  eyes  searched  it,  though  his  pulse  quick- 
ened with  the  sense  of  them  upon  him.  Presently 
she  dropped  them  baffled.  After  all,  why  should 
not  he  himself,  as  he  had  said,  play  something  of  a 
part  in  the  undertaking  he  had  sketched  ?  She  read 
the  mettle  of  the  man  in  the  lines  of  his  face. 
Until  that  moment  she  had  noticed  merely  that  he 
was  slim,  brown,  and  young.  But  for  the  first  time 
impressions  from  his  character  entered  her  mind ; 
the  meaning  of  the  man,  his  spiritual  part,  unfolded 
a  little.  But  it  was  not  he  who  was  the  creator  of 
this  vision  of  a  peaceful  earth-conquest ;  it  was  her 
need  to  have  the  name  spoken  to  her  ear  —  the 
name  she  was  sure  he  hid  under  his  tongue, 

"  It  is  a  great   dream,"  she  murmured,  wilfully 
exaggerating  and  enlarging  his   suggestions. 

"  Oh,  pretty  fair.     It 's  a  scheme  big  enough  to 
make  me  feel  I  'd  risk  a  thing  or  two  for  it." 

"  A  king  should  be  at  the  back  of  it.     Columbus 
had  a  king." 

236 


Cold  Winter. 

"  A  company  and  a  king  are  merely  two  names 
for  the  same  bad  thing.  I  want  to  serve  a  Govern- 
ment that  is  fulfilled  with  purposes  beyond  timid 
self-interest." 

She  had  closed  her  fan  again,  and  now  softly 
struck  her  white-gloved  hands  together. 

"  A  great  dream  —  a  great  dream,"  she  murmured 
again  ;  "  but  where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

Once  more  the  swift,  bird-like  glance  touched 
him,  and  the  voice  was  soft  as  honey.  He  wanted 
to  throw  himself  on  his  knees  and  break  forth  into 
an  eloquence  wherein  the  love-making  of  all  the 
poets  burned.  The  emotion  he  felt  was  terrifying 
to  him ;  the  ship  of  his  safety  plunged  into  deep 
waters,  and  if  his  hand  was  on  the  tiller  he  did  not 
see  his  way.  He  dared  not  look  at  her  fingers  lying 
curved  in  the  soft  white  mystery  of  her  dress,  he 
dared  not  meet  her  eyes  ;  he  kept  his  profile  still  as 
a  rock.  "  O  my  sweet  foe,  love  me  and  leave  me 
not !  "  cried  his  heart. 

"  It  came  to  me  lately,"  said  he,  gravely  dropping 
the  words  amidst  the  storm. 

Her  eyes  stole  towards  him  again  with  a  vivid 
look.  Speech  "hung  between  two  separate  ideas  in 
either  mind.  How  should  he  surmise  the  tragical 
nature  of  the  emotion  that  trembled  in  the  girl's 
heart  ?  He  who  had  dreamed  "  Africa  "  was,  she 
told  herself,  a  god  worthy  of  a  woman's  heroic  love 
—  the  love  that  asks  nothing  of  law. 

"  I  will  be  Heloi'se  ;  but  it  will  be  to  none  but 
237 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Abelard,"  she  had  said  to  herself  often  enough  in 
the  past. 

Had  she  a  love-story,  it  must  be  associated  with  a 
world-renowned  name  or  deed  ;  the  adventure  which 
lifted  her  of  her  heart  was  to  leave  a  meteoric  trail 
over  an  enskyed  memory.  But  it  might  satisfy  her 
to  lie  in  the  world's  story-book  between  two 
leaves  that  told  of  the  conquest  of  a  land.  The 
lustre  of  that  should  suffice.  Her  eyes  hung  on 
Evan's  lips. 

Was  there  the  hint  of  anxiety  in  them  —  a  sordid 
need  to  clothe  with  retrospective  purple  a  poor, 
naked  deed  slipped  into  her  life  in  one  unbalanced 
moment? 

He  thought  betwixt  dream  and  waking  —  for  so 
the  strange  instant  felt  —  that  she  followed  the 
heart-beats  that  had  underlain  this  talk  of  Africa. 
He  delayed  speaking,  because  the  hope  that  had 
alighted  on  the  moment  bore  wings  so  many- 
coloured  and  dazzling  that  he  feared  a  breath  might 
destroy  it.  His  eyes  darkened  and  softened  ;  an 
exquisite  humility  and  reverence  pervaded  his  heart  ; 
he  mustered  courage  at  last  to  turn  and  look  into 
the  face  of  this  all-possibility. 

"  We  have  great  power  one  over  another,"  said 
he,  gravely.  "  It  was  you  yourself  —  the  something 
in  your  nature  —  that  stirred  me  and  wakened  within 
me  the  possibility  of  the  dreaming  you  call  great." 


She  flung  open  her  fan.     The  word  leapt  out 


Cold  Winter. 

between  a  cry  and  a  laugh.     The    "slim  brown 
young  man  !  "   Eliza's  hero  ! 

Evan's  lids  shut  for  a  moment  He  got  his 
breath  between  his  teeth ;  he  scarcely  looked  at  her 
sheltered  behind  her  great  feather-tipped  fan.  His 
heart  shouted  "  Fool !  "  How  exquisitely  cruel 
these  tender-looking  things  called  women  could  be  ! 
He  felt  the  pallor  sweeping  over  his  face.  Her 
face,  white,  half  fainting,  he  could  not  see.  He  rose 
to  his  feet  and  coldly  stretched  his  arm. 

"  The  waltz  has  begun,"  said  he. 

That  night  Constantia  thanked  God  for  Norman's 
absence.  Unable  to  sleep,  she  rose  at  last  from  her 
bed.  Through  the  curtains  a  gleam  of  moonlight 
had  penetrated,  and  lay  across  her  pillow. 

"  It  is  that  which  disturbed  me,"  said  she ; 
"  there  is  something  cruel  in  the  look  of  moonlight 
at  dead  of  night." 

It  was  so  brilliant  that  when  she  placed  her  watch 
in  the  beam  she  read  the  time.  The  light  regular 
breathing  of  her  daughter  came  from  a  small  bed  in 
the  corner.  Still  through  Constantia's  brain  danced 
the  beautiful  alluring  figure  of  Rosalie  —  the  wild 
lovely  girl  with  the  ever-changeful  face  and  gleam- 
ing eyes. 

"  How  old  she  makes  me  feel !  " 

She  pressed  her  hand  over  her  sleepless  eyes; 
and    then,    white-robed,    barefooted   as    she   was, 
stepped  towards  the  window  and  drew  the  curtains 
back  a  little  and  set  her  face  between  them. 
•239 


Life  the  Accuser. 

The  moonlight  flooded  the  garden,  but,  saving 
one  corner,  the  side  of  the  house  which  lay  at  right 
angles  from  the  new  wing,  and  which  represented 
the  middle  and  older  part,  was  in  shadow.  In  this 
side  was  the  window  of  the  room  that  Norman  oc- 
cupied ;  her  eyes  rested  upon  it  sadly ;  the  moon- 
light folded  itself  about  her  head.  She  had  no 
thought  of  spying  upon  her  husband,  the  anchorage 
of  her  faith  might  be  torn  away  by  other  hands,  it 
would  not  be  removed  by  her  own ;  her  attitude 
was  that  of  the  waiter.  But  a  secret  thus  played 
over  by  the  consciousness  of  three  hearts  cannot  be 
hid ;  and  it  was  inevitable  that  from  the  deeps 
which  lie  in  the  nature  of  things  some  terrible 
revelation  should  arise.  First,  Constantia  became 
aware  of  a  dim  light  behind  Norman's  curtains; 
then  they  were  withdrawn,  and  a  hand  set  the  light 
in  the  window.  She  pushed  her  own  curtains 
roughly  back,  and  pressed  close  to  the  panes.  The 
spark  in  Norman's  window  burned  steadily  for  a 
few  seconds,  then  it  was  extinguished.  Constantia 
drew  back,  and  stared  round  the  room  with  a  star- 
tled face.  Was  that  a  signal?  She  heard  the 
softest  opening  of  a  door  near  her.  With  that,  she 
darted  from  the  window,  thrust  her  feet  into  slip- 
pers, and  rapidly  clothed  herself.  Beneath  the 
chatter  and  noise  of  merely  startled  thoughts,  be- 
neath the  anger  against  herself  for  surmise  and  for 
the  desperate  movement  of  her  mind  towards 
certainty,  was  the  inmost  conviction  of  the  less 
240 


Cold  Winter. 

conscious  self  lending  her  the  knowledge  of 
disaster. 

Her  room  opened  into  a  passage  ending  in  one 
of  the  principal  entrances  to  the  picture-gallery. 
Down  the  passage  and  towards  the  entrance  she 
made  her  way,  her  feet  shod  with  velvet.  As  she 
went,  she  noticed  without  surprise  that  the  door  of 
a  bedroom  stood  ajar ;  so  also  did  that  of  the  gal- 
lery. On  reaching  it  she  silently  pushed  it  wider. 

The  gallery  was  not  altogether  dark.  A  moon- 
beam fell  through  the  nearest  window,  and  lay 
transversely  across  the  corner  near  the  door ;  Con- 
stantia  looked  for  one  brief  second  across  the  light, 
and  then  shrank  back  into  the  passage  and  stood 
against  the  wall,  her  hand  upon  her  breast.  Sur- 
prise and  suspense  and  every  lesser  emotion  were 
expunged  from  her  heart  in  that  one  moment. 
Would  that  she  could  close  the  door  between  her- 
self and  the  whispering  pair  inside  !  As  in  a  dream 
she  saw  the  strongly  repressed  and  hated  suspicion 
of  uneasy  weeks  standing  out  before  her  in  actuality, 
yet  within  herself  found  neither  resource,  nor  a  plan 
of  action,  nor  a  whisper  of  a  word  of  policy.  Her 
nature  was  too  greatly  simple  to  search  for  tactics. 
She  stood  there  overwhelmed  by  a  great  tide  of 
solemn  pain  that  swept  over  and  over  her,  and  de- 
stroyed the  landmarks  of  her  life.  There  was  Nor- 
man ;  here  stood  she.  She  was  as  a  ship  going  to 
pieces.  Unutterable  anguish  fell  upon  her.  With 
her  hand  upon  her  breast  she  fought  for  breath ; 
16  241 


Life  the  Accuser. 

nothing  passed  her  lips,  yet  her  cries  went  up  to 
heaven.  There  was  Norman;  here  stood  she. 
The  naked  simplicity  would  take  no  abatement. 
The  shores  of  life  moved  and  slipped  away,  and 
every  second  carried  her  a  thousand  leagues.  Was 
the  time  short  ?  A  period  of  years  went  by.  Her 
mind  leapt  over  them  with  lightning-like  swiftness, 
and  left  them  shrivelled.  That  was  Norman ;  here 
stood  she.  Whither  would  the  hour  bear  her? 
Thought  touched  for  a  moment  on  her  children, 
and  fled  away  affrighted.  A  wind  seemed  to  snatch 
the  cry  from  her  lips,  and  then  she  went  down  — 
down  —  in  some  sweltering  deep  that  whirled  her 
round,  and  beat  the  life  out  of  her  heart.  After 
that  everything  went  still.  She  leaned  half-fainting 
in  the  corner  of  the  dark  passage,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  half-open  door,  the  brilliant  moonlight  lay  before 
her;  the  whispers  were  over.  A  soft  footfall  ap- 
proached. Constantia  opened  her  eyes  and  raised 
her  head. 

On  the  edge  of  the  moonlight  stood  a  figure.  It 
was  Rosalie  alone.  The  girl  hesitated  as  though 
shrinking  from  the  telltale  light,  and  gazed  intently 
•  at  the  far-away  and  solemn  panorama  of  the  skies. 
Her  clothing  was  a  white  wrapper,  her  hair  was 
loose  and  fell  in  masses  below  her  waist.  She 
moved  forwards  with  the  same  hesitating  step,  and 
the  moonlight  shot  over  her  in  a  sudden  illumina- 
tion. There  was  something  spectral  in  her  look, 
her  face  having  in  the  cold  beams  a  waxlike  pallor ; 
242 


Cold  Winter. 

her  lips  also  were  pallid,  and  her  eyes  gleamed  with 
a  smoulder  of  fast-dying  and  unhappy  excitement. 
She  seemed  some  apparition  of  the  tomb,  some 
wandering  spirit  bathing  her  feet  in  the  cool  night 
of  a  home-like  world. 

Every  faculty  of  Constantia  was  intensified  to 
abnormal  force  and  clearness  in  the  stress  of  the 
moment.  With  strange  and  absolute  conviction 
she  recognised  that  the  meaning  of  her  life  was  not 
to  be  sought  in  the  long  peace  of  years,  but  that  it 
met  her  in  this  approaching  figure,  —  that  here  and 
not  elsewhere  was  the  clue  to  her  history  and  exist- 
ence to  be  found. 

Thinking  of  this,  she  took  a  step  forwards,  and 
stood  in  the  doorway,  and  gravely  confronted  the 
girl.  No  word  was  spoken.  Rosalie  breathed  one 
startled  breath,  and  then  passed  by. 


243 


Life  the  Accuser. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AFTER  the  night  came  the  morning.  Constantia 
had  to  drop  the  curtain  on  that  ghostly  stage  where- 
on the  great  drama  is  played,  and  to  face  the  detail 
of  the  visible  world. 

It  startled  her  to  find  her  husband  unaltered  in 
appearance ;  she  had  almost  expected  that  the 
change  in  her  own  mind  would  find  a  correspond- 
ing reflection  there.  But  on  his  brow  was  no  ruffle, 
in  his  glance  no  perturbation,  nor  was  there  disturb- 
ance in  his  courteous  bearing.  So  had  he  looked 
and  borne  himself  all  the  years  of  her  life  with  him. 
The  thing  best  known  to  her  had  never  been  really 
seen  —  her  world  had  to  be  re-learned  from  the 
beginning.  She  seemed  to  put  forth  a  groping  hand 
to  a  dark  place  and  to  touch  nothing.  Her  heart 
cried  out  again  —  "  Where  is  Norman  ?  Where  is 
my  master?  Where  am  I?  " 

They  were  home  again,  and  Norman  spoke  of  a 
run  to  town  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  afternoon. 
It  surprised  her  to  be  asked  to  walk  down  the  drive 
with  him,  but  she  acquiesced  passively.  Her  mind 
was  stupefied  after  the  excess  of  agony,  and  her  will 
244 


Cold  Winter. 

lay  dormant.  Norman  took  her  hand  and  placed  it 
in  his  arm  ;  she  was  not  conscious  of  the  action. 

"  Have  you  seen  anything  of  Eliza  Armstrong 
lately?"  said  he,  as  they  sauntered  along. 

With  the  name  a  painful  memory  ruffled  the 
stupid  silence  of  her  mind.  Might  not  Eliza  with 
her  strange  instinctive  power  of  vision  have  saved 
them  all  ? 

"  No,"  she  replied,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  don't  want  any  hint  of  what  I  am  going  to 
say  to  get  about.  I  am  very  anxious  about  the 
Armstrongs.  Their  affairs  are  not  going  well." 

«  Not  ? " 

"  You  know,  Constantia,  it  is  my  habit  to  consult 
you  about  everything.  You  are  a  supremely  wise 
woman  —  such  a  woman  as  a  man  meets  once  in  a 
lifetime.  Not  a  word  of  what  I  am  telling  you  is 
to  escape.  You  remember  asking  me  to  befriend 
Eliza?" 

"  Yes." 

She  looked  up  to  his  face.  The  blinding  thing 
was  that  it  seemed,  as  usual,  that  his  voice,  his 
praise,  was  as  before. 

"  Well,  I  wish  to  befriend  her  now.  And  I  want 
you  to  help  me.  I  want  to  procure  Eliza's  sig- 
nature to  a  paper  without  the  knowledge  of  her 
brother  or  any  one  else.  Can  you  undertake  this 
forme?" 

Constantia  was  silent.  A  week  ago  she  would 
have  leapt  to  his  command  with  unhesitating  alac- 
245 


Life  the  Accuser. 

rity.  Now  she  realised  that  the  springs  of  her 
trust  were  broken  everywhere.  She  knitted  her 
brows,  and  tried  to  look  into  that  world  of  affairs 
in  which  she  had  hitherto  taken  no  part. 

"  I  have  not  been  very  friendly  with  Eliza  lately/' 
said  she. 

"Indeed?  That  comes  a  little  awkwardly  — 
for  her." 

Constantia  caught  at  the  last  two  words. 

"  I  Ve  no  doubt  I  could  procure  her  signature 
for  anything,"  said  she,  in  anxious  hurry ;  "  but  I 
should  wish  to  understand  more  about  it." 

"  But  it  is  one  of  those  secrets  so  much  better 
left  unspoken." 

" A  secret!" 

"From  the  business  world,  you  understand." 

Constantia  did  not  reply.  The  incident  revealed 
how  difficult  life  had  become.  In  his  own  depart- 
ment she  had  considered  her  husband's  judgment 
supreme,  but  now  a  sense  of  her  responsibility 
intruded  there  helplessly. 

"When  can  you  see  Eliza?  "  urged  Norman. 

"  Soon,"  returned  Constantia. 

"That  is  well.  I  must  have  an  interview  with 
her,  and  add  my  persuasions  to  yours  —  and  as 
quickly  as  possible." 

"  Persuade  her  to  what?  " 

"  It  is  for  your  sake,  Constantia.  You  asked  me 
to  look  after  Eliza,  and  I  mean  to  do  so.  I  wish 
her  to  sell  out  of  some  of  her  property  at  once 
246 


Cold  Winter. 

—  of  a  small  portion  I  assigned  to  her.  And  I  wish 
to  arrange  this  without  the  knowledge  of  her  brother." 

He  spoke  gravely,  earnestly.  They  had  reached 
the  lodge  gate ;  he  paused  with  his  hand  upon  it. 
Constantia  paused  too,  and  looked  up  to  him  with 
the  deep  harassed  question  of  her  soul  in  her  eyes ; 
his  glance  flinched  before  hers,  and  roamed  over 
the  landscape ;  but  the  weakness  was  only  momen- 
tary, and  her  own  lids  had  need  to  droop  a  moment 
after  before  the  kind  solicitude  of  his  look. 

"You  are  not  quite  yourself,  dearest.  I  am 
afraid  all  this  dissipation  is  too  much  for  you. 
Mind  you  rest  this  afternoon." 

The  day  went  on.  Constantia's  power  of  think- 
ing dwindled  to  an  aching  desire  for  solitude  —  for 
some  vast  desert  where  she  might  sit  alone  with  her 
grief,  turn  it  as  it  were  over  in  her  hand,  consider 
the  quality  of  it,  look  from  it  on  to  the  world  it 
altered,  and  upon  herself  changed  beyond  knowl- 
edge of  her  own  identity.  No  such  moment  was 
accorded.  Children,  guests,  servants,  one  after 
another,  with  ordinary  cheery  faces  and  details  of 
their  own,  pressed  upon  her  with  the  wearying  effect 
of  a  restless  dream  to  a  brain  off  the  balance.  All, 
save  her  grief,  appeared  unreal  —  a  lying  sham  in 
which  she  was  forced  to  take  part. 

It  did  not  arouse  any  sense  of  jealousy  to  sur- 
mise that  her  husband  and  Rosalie  had  probably 
arranged  a  meeting,  and  might  at  this  moment 
of  her  agonising  loneliness  and  distress  be  losing 
247 


Life  the  Accuser. 

themselves  in  the  intoxication  of  companionship. 
Her  grief  was  of  too  great,  too  vast  a  quality,  to 
mar  itself  with  torturing  details  ;  her  nature  moved 
on  lines  too  large,  heroic,  and  simple.  The  sun  of 
her  universe  was  eclipsed,  and  it  mattered  little, 
beneath  the  awful  darkness,  that  the  lesser  torments 
to  which  humanity  is  subject  crept  as  stealthy  sting- 
ing-worms over  the  ground  on  which  her  blind  feet 
moved  towards  ever  deeper  comprehension  of  her 
woe.  Sorrow,  as  Love,  Religion,  and  Beauty,  takes 
the  mind's  own  impress.  And  Constantia's  grief 
was  destitute  of  outcry  and  devoid  of  petulance. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  tea  was  over,  and 
callers  had  thinned  away,  and  the  children  were 
less  restlessly  and  joyously  inclined  to  dash  in  and 
out  of  every  room  to  which  the  mother  retired, 
Constantia  expected  an  interval  of  peace.  She 
leaned  her  head  back  on  a  chair  and  closed  her 
aching  lids.  It  was  as  though  she  had  died  in 
the  night,  and  her  imprisoned  spirit  was  about  to 
escape  to  those  chill  and  unrealised  regions  to 
which  she  now  belonged.  A  step  outside  aroused 
her  as  instantly ;  she  raised  her  lids  with  a  start  and 
sat  upright,  again  ready  for  the  world's  exacting 
and  cruel  claims.  The  door  opened,  and  Evan 
stood  on  the  threshold.  At  the  sight  of  him  a  new 
corner  of  her  misery  revealed  itself.  She  looked 
at  his  brilliant  young  manhood,  at  the  strong  face 
with  the  slightly  hooked  nose  and  the  bright,  hawk- 
like eye,  and  the  sensitive  mouth  which  was  the 
248 


Cold  Winter. 

special  gift  of  his  mother  —  her  impress  finishing 
his  masterful  manhood  with  the  touch  of  womanly 
tenderness. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  lad,  "  I  am  fortunate  in  finding 
you  alone." 

And  he  came  forward  and  sat  down  by  her  side, 
sheltering  himself  in  the  warm  shadow  of  her 
motherhood  and  sympathy. 

"  You  are  going,  Evan  ?  "  said  Constantia,  gently. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  off.  I  mean  to  get  my  things  to- 
gether to-morrow,  and  take  the  night-train.  I  want 
to  get  back  to  practical  hard  work." 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  were  sad  though 
his  voice  was  clear.  "  I  need  to  be  back  in  the 
workshop,  to  get  alongside  machinery  and  steel 
and  furnaces  and  men.  I  want,"  he  added  grimly, 
"  to  get  grip  on  the  real  substantial  hardships  of 
the  world  again." 

He  set  his  teeth  and  flung  out  his  fist. 

"Yes,  Evan,"  said  Constantia,  faintly.  She  laid 
her  finger  on  his  arm,  and  he  turned  to  her  with 
a  softened  face.  He  had  no  idea  that  the  small 
slight  touch  was  a  cry  for  mercy  for  herself.  How 
should  he  dream  that  this  wise  sheltering  mother- 
hood, this  refuge  for  men  and  children,  was  itself 
bare  to  so  stupendous  a  loneliness  and  grief?  He 
thought  the  touch  was  meant  as  the  mild  control 
by  which  such  women  guide  and  rule  the  world. 

"  There  is  something  I  cannot  understand,"  said 
249 


Life  the  Accuser. 

he,  apologetically,  "  and  it  raises  a  kind  of  devil  in 
me,  —  not  a  bad  sort  of  fellow,  I  think,  but  some- 
thing uncommonly  stimulating  and  rousing.  Never 
mind  what  it  is,  but  it  is  not  anything  I  expected 
to  break  over.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  how  the  men 
in  the  workshop  set  on  me  once  ?  " 

"  I  think  not." 

"There  was  a  difference  of  opinion  between 
them  and  me.  They  tried  to  coerce  me,  and  took 
the  straps  off  the  wheels,  and  pushed  about  me 
with  their  fists  clenched.  I  was  one  amongst  a  dozen 
all  wanting  to  make  instant  mincemeat  of  me  amongst 
the  machinery.  Argument  had  failed,  but  will  was 
left.  It  rose  up  within  me  that  I  was  worth  the 
whole  dozen  of  them  in  mettle.  I  saw  a  big  ham- 
mer lying  on  the  window-sill  near  me,  and  I  backed 
into  a  corner  and  stretched  my  hand  out  to  it  steal- 
thily. Well,  I  got  it ;  and  then  I  swung  it  round 
my  head  and  shouted,  '  Get  those  straps  on  again 
or  I  '11  brain  one  or  two  of  you  ! '  And  they  stared, 
hesitated  a  little,  and  at  last  slunk  off  and  put  the 
straps  on ;  and  when  the  manager  came  round,  the 
room  was  quiet.  But  I  find  there  are  things  in  life 
one  can't  meet  in  that  way." 

"  Yes?  "  said  Constantia,  softly ;  for  Evan's  voice 
changed,  and  this  creature  of  strong  nerve  and 
muscle  and  will  nestled,  as  it  were,  closer  to  her 
broken  and  exhausted  heart  for  protection  and 
help. 

"  I  'm  telling  you  that  about  the  workshop  only  — 
250 


Cold  Winter. 

but  because  I  can't  understand  myself,"   said  he, 
aimlessly. 

He  got  up  sighing,  and  wandered  about  the 
room,  and  then  came  back  to  her  side  and  stood 
looking  down  upon  her. 

"It's  this  odd  sense,"  said  he,  in  his  half-confi- 
dence, "  of  not  being  able  to  make  my  own  willing 
avail  one  jot." 

"  Yes,"  said  Constantia,  in  a  low  voice. 
She   felt  like   some   timid   thing  of  the  woods 
trembling  amidst  traps. 

"Well,"  continued  Evan,  shaking  back  his  head, 
"  the  workshop  's  my  place." 

"Yes,"  said  Constantia;  "don't — don't  let  this 
you  speak  of  overmaster  you  and  spoil  your  life." 

"  I  think  I  shall  not.  I  am  not  going  to  be 
weak.  I  believe  I  may  promise  you  that." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  Constantia,  with  painful  eager- 
ness, "  promise  that." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  clasped  hers.  As  he 
reached  the  door,  Constantia  called  him  again. 

"  Shall  you  see  Eliza  before  you  leave  ?  "  asked 
she. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Evan,  his  face  lightening  a  little  as 
he  recalled  the  attachment  of  his  small  friend,  "  I 
should  think  so  indeed,  if  I  can  compass  it." 

"  When  you  see  her,  give  her  my  love  —  Con- 
stantia's  love,"  said  she. 

It  was  getting  late ;  in  another  hour  Norman 
would  be  back.  Constantia  listened  to  Evan's 

251 


Life  the  Accuser. 

steps  down  the  drive  ;  then  she  rose  and  sought  the 
safer  retreat  of  her  bedroom.  No  longer  dominated 
by  the  need  of  concealment,  her  walk,  her  figure, 
took  the  lines  of  her  stupendous  grief.  She  stum- 
bled gropingly  up  the  stairs,  her  hand  outstretched. 
The  restraints  of  her  dress  pained  her,  as  though 
her  pent-up  grief  had  some  physical  effect  upon 
her  heart,  which  felt  like  a  still  and  swollen  thing 
in  her  breast.  She  changed  the  gown  for  a  loose 
wrapper,  and  sank  back  into  a  lounge,  her  face 
dropping  into  the  expression  of  its  agony ;  already 
one  or  two  cooling  tears  crept  from  her  lids  ;  but  a 
new  interruption  caught  the  moment's  respite  from 
the  mother  of  the  house.  A  scamper  of  little  feet, 
a  series  of  cries  of  "  Mother  !  mother !  mother  ! " 
were  followed  by  a  tattoo  of  knocks  and  kicks  upon 
her  chamber-door  —  the  storming  of  a  child  impa- 
tient to  enter. 

Constantia  caught  her  handkerchief,  and  pressed 
back  the  tears  from  her  eyes ;  unconquerable  emo- 
tion threatened  for  the  moment  to  prevent  the  pos- 
sibility of  reply;  but  she  sat  up,  mastering  the 
convulsion  in  her  throat,  and  tuning  her  voice  from 
any  possible  jar  to  that  soft  music  which  had  domi- 
nated the  house  into  serenity  and  peace  for  twenty 
years  of  her  life. 

«  What  is  it,  Ted?  "  cried  she. 

The  door  burst  open,  and  little  Ted  rushed  in. 

"  Mother  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  emphasis. 

His  brown  eyes  were  wide-open,  his  face  excited. 
252 


Cold  Winter. 

She  extended  her  hand  with  her  calm,  soothing 
smile,  and  he  ran  straight  to  her  breast  and  clutched 
the  soft  lace  which  she  wore  about  her  neck. 
There  was  some  childish  trouble  in  which  a  cat  was 
mixed  up ;  he  had  been  brought  up  to  consider  it  a 
point  of  honour  that  tears  should  be  shed  only  at 
his  mother's  knee  ;  his  injury  —  or  rather  sympathy 
for  an  injured  cat  —  had  been  long  repressed  ;  he 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  drew  forth  the  tiniest 
of  tiny  pocket-handkerchiefs  to  cope  with  it. 

The  emotion  was  intense  and  overflowing,  and 
the  pocket-handkerchief  inadequate.  Constantia 
whipped  out  her  own.  She  kissed  the  fair  curly 
head,  and  pressed  it  to  her  bosom,  and  uncurled  the 
short  crisp  rings  of  hair  upon  her  fingers.  Then 
for  an  hour  she  talked  to  him  of  the  ways  of  kittens 
and  the  devices  of  mankind  towards  the  small 
beasts  of  the  earth,  and  the  compensations  that  are 
to  be  discovered  in  the  lives  of  cats,  and  the  kind- 
ness which  men  deal  out  sometimes  in  forms  that 
are  harsh  to  begin  with  but  end  well  at  the  last. 
Ted  listened  and  amplified  the  matter  by  frequent 
questions  and  much  repetition.  All  this  took  time, 
and  Constantia's  precious  hour  of  solitude  slipped 
away.  So  engrossed  had  she  become  in  her  task 
of  consoling  the  boy  that  a  knock  at  the  door 
escaped  her  notice,  and,  the  handle  turning  softly, 
she  raised  her  head  to  find  that  Norman  had  en- 
tered the  room. 

"  Ted  and  I  are  discussing  a  very  particular  and 
253 


Life  the  Accuser. 

private  matter.     No  !     He  has  not  been  naughty, 
Norman,"  said  she. 

The  father,  stretching  his  hand,  had  turned  the 
tear-stained  face  upwards,  and  was  smiling  whimsi- 
cally at  the  traces  of  grief. 

"  It  was  a  question  of  sentiment,  then  ?  "  said  he. 
"  Perhaps  something  out  of  my  pocket  will  meet 
the  case." 

Ted  slid  from  his  mother's  side,  and  stood  with 
his  eyes  eagerly  fixed  on  his  father's  pockets. 

Constantia  moved  to  her  dressing-table,  and  rang 
for  her  maid.  She  was  thunderstruck  to  find  that 
her  tremendous  grief  had  been  for  a  second  effaced 
by  the  long  habit  of  her  life,  and  that  she,  the  child, 
and  his  father  had  stood  together  for  that  brief 
moment  in  ordinary  natural  intercourse.  It  appalled 
her  that  it  should  be  so.  For  now  the  knowledge 
of  her  situation  returned  in  redoubled  clearness,  but 
accompanied  by  a  sense  of  curious  weakness.  Her 
ears  followed  her  husband's  steps  to  his  dressing- 
room,  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  suffocatingly. 
There  was  a  delirious  hurry  in  her  pulses  and  a 
panting  terror  in  her  breast.  It  brought  a  flush  to 
her  cheek  and  a  brightness  to  her  eyes.  She  turned 
from  her  dressing-table  when  her  toilette  was  com- 
plete and  stood  hesitating,  her  eyes  downcast,  her 
air  that  of  a  soft  dignity  a  little  uncertain  of  itself. 
All  the  time  her  ears  had  strained  themselves  for 
the  slightest  movement  in  Norman's  dressing-room, 
and  now  she  heard  him  go  downstairs. 
254 


Cold  Winter. 

"  Oh,  mistress  ! "  exclaimed  the  maid,  unlocking 
a  cupboard  to  replace  the  morning  gown,  "you 
look  lovely  to-night.  I  do  feel  proud  sometimes 
when  I  Ve  dressed  you." 

Constantia  cast  a  perplexed  glance  at  the  mirror, 
thanked  the  girl  gently,  and  went  out.  An  un- 
wonted timidity  seized  her ;  when  she  entered  the 
drawing-room  and  saw  Norman  standing  alone 
upon  the  hearth,  handsome,  self-possessed,  smiling, 
her  eyes  drooped  beneath  his,  and  her  step  fal- 
tered. The  habitual,  with  the  difference  in  it, 
affected  her  as  by  some  fume,  and  all  the  little 
lights  of  thought  and  will  flickered  out. 

"  You  look  five  years  younger  to-night,  Constan- 
tia!" said  Norman,  coming  up  with  alacrity  and 
placing  her  hand  in  his  arm. 

His  eyes  travelled  over  her  face  in  surprised 
admiration. 

"  I  do  like  my  wife  to  look  well,"  he  murmured. 

The  same  inexplicable  confusion  and  partial  ob- 
fuscation  of  her  senses  which  had  attacked  her  in 
the  bedroom  remained  with  her  when  she  returned 
alone  to  the  drawing-room.  She  paced  the  room 
slowly,  raising  her  handkerchief  more  than  once  to 
her  damp  brow.  Every  sign  of  her  habitual  life 
and  habitual  happiness  was  about  her ;  she  felt  that 
this  mere  habit  of  life  was  a  sluggish  stream  that 
threatened  to  efface  her  individual  will  and  con- 
science ;  and  before  she  had  forced  from  her  mind 
a  clear  idea,  Norman  was  back.  He  carried  the 
255 


Life  the  Accuser. 

evening  papers  in  his  hand,  and  brought  into  the 
room  with  him  the  usual  sense  of  vigour,  masculine 
will,  and  complete  self-possession.  She  realised 
acutely  how  restful  was  his  atmosphere,  and  how 
completely  her  own  nature  had,  during  the  years  of 
their  life  together,  settled  into  comfortable  subordi- 
nation to  his.  And  now  the  parting  of  the  ways 
had  come? 

Norman  handed  her  the  papers  to  choose  from, 
and  took  those  she  left.  He  seated  himself  on  the 
sofa,  threw  one  leg  along  it,  and  leaned  lazily 
against  the  cushions.  Seated  opposite,  the  paper 
dropping  from  her  hand,  she  studied  the  familiar 
form  and  face  ;  and  thus  looking  at  him  she  experi- 
enced more  and  more  a  weakening  of  her  nature, 
a  monstrous  temptation  to  condone  everything, 
shuffle  everything  by,  for  the  sake  of  that  sweet 
intimacy  which,  for  the  first  time  for  twenty  years, 
was  threatened ;  —  to  be  party  to  his  failure,  ac- 
complice of  his  lapse,  for  the  sake  of  retaining  the 
warm  peace  of  the  nest  of  love  in  which  she  had 
existed  for  so  long. 

For  there  was  still  peace.  In  what  had  his 
manner  differed  during  this  day  from  what  it  had 
always  been?  In  what  had  his  affection  towards 
her  and  the  children  diminished?  As  long  as  he 
remained  unconscious  of  her  discovery,  as  long  as 
she  stifled  her  agony,  the  old  life  might  go  on. 
How  should  she  reach,  out  of  these  years  of  merged 
existence,  a  separate  individuality  strong  enough  to 
256 


Cold  Winter. 

set  into  opposition  to  his  ?  The  scare  of  it  appalled 
her. 

"  Why,"  asked  she,  in  spiritual  terror,  "  should  I 
attempt  this  scission  ?  Why  say  a  word  ?  Why  risk 
the  outward  peace  which  at  least  I  can  retain?" 

The  spoken  cowardice  acted  as  a  goad  to  her 
torpid  brain;  she  was  startled  back  into  full  con- 
sciousness. She  found  herself,  as  her  gaze  concen- 
trated more  and  more  upon  the  unconscious,  careless 
ease  of  Norman's  attitude,  in  the  throes  of  a  supreme 
debate  ;  and  in  the  anguish  of  it,  her  very  passion 
revived  out  of  the  long  years  of  secure  and  satisfied 
love  which  had  laid  it  at  rest.  She  began  to 
tremble  at  his  presence,  to  shudder  at  the  thought 
of  his  touch,  at  the  sight  of  his  hand  holding  the 
paper. 

What  disorder  was  this  in  her  life  ?  For  it  was 
disorder.  Her  deepest  consciousness  of  the  some- 
thing which  encircles  all  emotion  and  is  greater  than 
the  emotion  itself,  taught  her  to  distinguish  amidst 
the  distresses  of  the  moment,  and  to  refuse  to  be 
blinded  by  any  sophistry  of  the  conventions. 

Just  as  outside  the  pale  of  man's  law  and  in 
defiance  of  it  general  emotion  may  be  not  only 
guiltless  but  true  to  the  highest  and  most  elevating 
that  man  can  touch,  so  within  the  pale  of  man's 
law  and  permitted  by  the  bond  of  marriage  itself, 
may  sexual  emotion  defile  the  discernment,  and 
ruin  the  moral  power  and  break  the  individual  will. 

Of  all  such  feeling,  the  ultimate  criterion  is  the 
17  257 


Life  the  Accuser. 

fruit  in  the  character  and  life;  the  machinery  of 
law  and  of  convention  does  not  affect  that  higher 
balance  of  the  judgment. 

At  last,  rising  softly  from  her  chair,  she  withdrew 
to  another  portion  of  the  room ;  a  glance  assured 
her  that  Norman,  engrossed  by  his  paper,  was  tak- 
ing no  notice  whatever  of  her  movements.  She 
pushed  back  a  curtain  that  fell  over  an  arch,  and 
passed  into  a  dimly  lighted  antechamber.  Here 
she  walked  up  and  down  in  agitation,  clasping  and 
unclasping  her  hands,  and  trembling  at  the  thought 
of  her  own  husband. 

"  I  do  not  understand  myself,"  she  said  ;  "  is  it 
an  infection  ?  Am  I  myself  contaminated  by  mere 
proximity?" 


258 


Cold  Winter. 


CHAPTER  III. 

EDWARD  ARMSTRONG  had  played  his  trump  card 
and  had  secured  the  mines,  but  the  event  left  him 
without  any  great  sense  of  satisfaction.  He  was 
not  troubled  at  having  assumed  the  part  of  the 
blackmailer  —  what  was  the  good  of  acquiring  a 
certain  class  of  information  if  you  did  not  use  it  to 
your  own  advantage  ?  —  but  in  spite  of  the  support 
of  some  of  his  family,  and  the  ministrations  of  their 
flattery,  he  had  as  much  difficulty  in  persuading 
himself  to  a  comfortable  sense  of  success  as  some 
pious  persons  have  in  working  themselves  up  to  an 
assurance  of  having  "  got  salvation." 

Midnight  is  a  proverbially  uneasy  season,  and 
Edward  lay  with  his  nose  above  the  coverlet  fever- 
ishly reviewing  the  particulars  of  his  coup  d'etat. 
It  was  a  peculiarity  of  his  nature  that  he  was  not 
content  to  be  a  villain  ;  he  desired  to  be  a  saint  or 
an  angel  —  if  only  it  would  not  cost  so  much. 
There  was  nothing  he  would  have  liked  better  than 
to  play  the  part  of  the  hero  —  if  only  that  role  was  not 
invariably  accompanied  by  a  roughly  made  cross. 
Now  Edward  hated  carrying  a  cross ;  it  was  even 
difficult  for  him  to  resign  a  comfortable  arm-chair  to 
259 


Life  the  Accuser. 

another  more  tired  than  himself.  But  he  dearly 
loved  to  picture  himself  as  habitually  making  sac- 
rifices, and  he  was  skilful  in  insinuating  this  ideal, 
view  to  others.  His  step- mother,  his  Aunt  Caroline, 
and  Sylvia  remained  stanch  worshippers ;  but  at 
this  hour  of  the  night  the  conviction  intruded  itself 
that  his  father  had  seen  through  him  at  the  last, 
and  he  was  by  no  means  sure  that  Gilbert's  mind  was 
not  moving  to  a  like  conclusion.  Gilbert  had  not 
directly  opposed  the  new  distribution  of  the  prop- 
erty which  presented  Edward  with  nearly  half  the 
whole  amount,  but  he  had  sat  before  the  fire,  rest- 
lessly picking  at  his  fingers  and  staring  at  the  flames 
with  a  dark  look  that  Edward  did  not  find  consoling 
to  his  vanity,  and  which  wounded  him  as  an  injus- 
tice. Like  the  god  of  the  poets  he  felt  that  he 
"missed  his  little  human  praise." 

Nevertheless  his  family  on  the  whole  acquiesced 
in  his  view  of  his  rights.  Even  Eliza  gave  no  ex- 
press denial  of  their  father's  gift,  though  she  per- 
sisted in  a  bald  description  of  the  interview  which 
left  it  entirely  unornamented  by  those  little  touches 
that  make  a  thing  convincing.  It  was,  however, 
in  connection  with  Dayntree  that  his  thoughts  were 
most  disturbing. 

Dayntree's  idea  of  the  distribution  of  the  property 
had  been  a  division  so  exact  that  Edward  could 
only  marvel  at  the  want  of  imaginative  justice  in 
a  man  who  could  apportion  to  his  needs  the  same 
amount  that  he  handed  to  Eliza !  Nevertheless  it 
260 


Cold  Winter. 

had  at  first  seemed  improbable  that  he  would  take 
any  other  view.  It  was  not  until  Edward  played 
his  trump  card  that  there  had  been  a  sign  of  yield- 
ing. It  was,  however,  just  on  the  subject  of  the 
trump  card  that  the  pricking  sense  of  fear  came  in. 
He  could  not  assure  himself  that  the  executor  had 
acted  solely  in  alarm  —  that  there  was  not  some 
diabolical  joke  or  prescience  at  the  bottom  of  it.  A 
sudden  reference  to  the  wet  night  at  the  inn  had 
evidently  affected  him,  but  his  words  and  manner 
had  left  Edward  uncertain  what  was  his  part  in  the 
adventure.  Rosalie  Trelyon  had  a  character  for 
eccentricity — Dayntree  might  have  been  acting  as 
an  emissary  for  the  mother.  It  was  true  that  his 
—  Edward's  —  silence  had  been  bought  by  the  gift 
of  the  mine  shares,  but  Dayntree's  bearing  had  not 
been  that  of  alarm.  He  had  thrown  a  look  diffi- 
cult to  read,  while  saying, — 

"  Very  well,  Armstrong ;  you  shall  have  it  your 
own  way." 

Even  then  he  refused  to  make  the  distribution 
of  the  property  as  desired  unless  he  —  Edward  — 
signed  a  paper  alleging  that  the  portion  assigned  to 
himself  was  his  own  choice,  and  in  deference  to  a 
wish  expressed  by  his  dying  father  and  testified  to 
by  his  sister.  Edward  particularly  disliked  that. 
He  was  a  man  who  shrinks  from  seeing  his  deeds 
on  paper  with  his  name  beneath  them ;  he  liked  a 
loophole  left  for  future  contingencies.  Another 
point  on  which  Dayntree  had  insisted  was  that 
261 


Life  the  Accuser. 

;£8ooo  of  the  shares  should  be  distributed  to  the 
other  members  of  the  family,  Edward  taking  instead 
^"2000  of  some  other  scrip. 

It  was  only  yesterday  that  the  rest  of  the  distribu- 
tion had  been  concluded.  Edward's  brain  was  hot 
with  the  kind  of  angry  argument  which  was  common 
in  the  Armstrong  family.  Eliza's  share  of  twelve 
thousand  and  odd  affected  him  with  a  peculiar 
sense  of  grudge,  —  why  should  she  and  Sylvia  have 
so  much?  They  and  their  step-mother  had  taken 
the  same  amount  as  Gilbert,  who  looked  dark  and 
sat  silent  before  the  fire.  Nor  had  Gilbert  altered 
his  mood  upon  Edward's  endeavouring  to  represent 
that  the  difference  between  the  thirty-two  thousand 
which  he  had  taken  and  the  twelve  which  Gilbert 
had  received,  was  somehow  representative  of  an  act 
of  sacrifice  on  his  part  by  which  the  family  would 
be  benefited. 

"  We  must  yield,  Gilbert,"  said  Mrs.  Armstrong, 
"  to  a  laudable  desire  on  Edward's  part  to  carry  out 
his  father's  wish  to  found  a  Family." 

"  And  how  the  deuce  I  Jm  going  to  do  it  on  thirty- 
two  thousand  pounds,  the  Lord  alone  knows " 

"  Edward  !  don't  swear  !  " 

"  I  'm  left  a  pauper  —  a  mere  pauper  —  to  start 
with.  Aunt  Caroline,  dorft  take  me  up  in  that 
ridiculous  way." 

"  Edward  naturally  feels  excited,  Caroline." 

"  And  T  tell  you  what,  Gilbert  —  you  don't  know 
it,  but  it  is  so  —  I  handed  eight  thousand  of  my 
262 


Cold  Winter. 

shares  to  you  and  mother  and  the  girls,  and  took  a 
paltry  two  thousand  in  their  stead  of  railway  guar- 
anteed stock,  or  something  slow,  that  is  no  use 
whatever." 

From  Gilbert  darkly  staring  at  the  fire  came  no 
reply.  But  everybody  knew  what  it  meant  when 
he  picked  at  his  fingers  in  that  way. 

"  The  wrong,"  said  Edward,  perambulating  the 
room  and  speaking  always  oracularly,  "  is  the 
amount  the  girls  have  got.  But  I  wash  my  hands 
of  the  whole  affair.  Father  put  it  out  of  my  power 
to  see  justice  done  to  you  or  any  one." 

It  was  not  within  Edward's  capacity  to  conceive 
the  poignancy  of  the  smart  under  which  Norman's 
self-respect  suffered,  nor  his  misery  at  the  affront  to 
his  pride.  Accustomed  to  deal  with  men,  he  had 
detected  the  weakness  of  uncertainty  in  young  Arm- 
strong's manner,  and  had  met  it  (at  much  cost  to 
his  nerve)  by  a  firm  air  of  indifference.  But  the 
best  he  could  achieve  by  his  manner  on  one  side, 
and  the  policy  of  yielding  to  Edward's  demands  on 
the  other,  was,  he  began  to  perceive,  a  mere  post- 
ponement of  peril.  Conduct  like  money  may  be  a 
kind  of  investment,  and  as  commercial  prudence 
recognises  the  futility  of  "throwing  good  money 
after  bad,"  so  did  Norman  recognise  the  uselessness 
of  casting  away  his  probity  to  save  his  dishonour. 
Still  he  did  it.  The  need  was  urgent ;  it  was  the 
one  handy  expedient ;  yet,  as  he-took  it,  he  felt  that 
he  was  bankrupt,  at  least  in  security,  while  the  air 
263 


Life  the  Accuser. 

of  surprise  with  which  Evan  heard  of  the  transfer  of 
the  mine  scrip  to  Armstrong  made  him  question 
whether  his  bankruptcy  did  indeed  extend  to  his 
integrity. 

Meanwhile  it  added  to  the  ache  of  Evan's  heart 
about  Rosalie  to  feel  that  any  act  of  Norman's 
was  difficult  of  adjustment  to  his  sense  of  probity. 

"  The  world  is  sadly  out  of  joint,"  said  he,  as 
he  walked  down  the  lane  towards  the.  Court  to 
say  good-bye  to  Eliza. 

Half-way  down  the  lane  he  met  Mr.  Dixon ; 
he  was  walking  smartly  and  nodded  rather  gaily. 
Evan  noticed  a  flower  in  his  button-hole. 

"  Hang  the  fellow,"  said  he,  gnashing  his  teeth 
in  ill-humour;  "he  makes  one  feel  more  out  of 
joint  than  ever,  with  his  air  of  fat  success  and  in- 
capacity for  ruffled  feeling." 

Half-way  up  the  court  drive  he  discerned  "  Aunt 
Caroline ''  slowly  sauntering  homewards.  Evan 
stepped  on  to  the  grass,  and  walked  more  slowly ; 
he  had  no  desire  to  overtake  Miss  Armstrong  in 
his  present  mood.  In  spite,  however,  of  his  pre- 
caution, she  turned  and  recognised  him ;  seeing 
that  she  waited,  he  advanced  with  lifted  cap. 

"I  am  the  bearer  of  a  message  to  Miss  Eliza 
Armstrong.  Be  so  good  as  to  direct  me,"  said 
he,  when  the  ordinary  salutations  were  over.  But 
Miss  Armstrong  knew  nothing  of  the  whereabouts 
of  so  inconsiderable  a  person. 

Then  it  came  to  Evan's  mind  (and  it  cut  him 
264 


Cold  Winter. 

to  think  it)  that  perhaps  she  might  still  be  haunt- 
ing the  precincts  of  the  pine-wood.  Raising  his  hat 
to  bid  adieu,  he  turned  his  steps  in  that  direction. 
He  walked  quickly  on,  the  silence  of  the 
country  about  him.  It  was  autumn  now,  a  cold 
bright  day  late  in  October,  but  in  the  wood  it  was 
warmer.  As  he  opened  the  gate  from  the  lane, 
the  pleasant  pure  aroma  of  the  pines,  the  quie- 
tude and  silence  carried  the  inevitable  association. 
He  marvelled  to  find  how  soft  and  soothing  was 
that  memory  of  the  pine-wood  friendship  with 
Eliza,  how  it  discovered  itself  to  him  as  a  cooling, 
dim-tinted,  twilight  thing.  Should  he  find  her  here 
now?  He  went  on  towards  the  accustomed  spot, 
treading  meditatively  upon  the  fallen  needles,  his 
heart  partly  regretting  the  peace  he  had  lost.  And 
suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  the  familiar  figure ; 
he  did  so  before  she  had  a  chance  of  seeing  him. 
Then  he  stopped  short,  and  looked  at  her  steadily. 
This  is  how  it  came  about  that  he  saw  a  woman 
in  her  love  pain  without  subterfuge  or  reserve ; 
there  was  no  duplicity  possible  because  she  did 
not  dream  she  was  observed.  She  was  sitting  on 
the  ground,  her  cape  wrapped  closely  around  her, 
and  her  head  against  a  tree.  Her  cheeks  were 
white,  and  her  eyes  closed ;  her  face  was  a  simple 
page  of  suffering  passion;  it  was  Evan's  own 
experience  which  enabled  him  to  read  it.  He 
stood  perfectly  still,  unable  to  decide  whether  to 
advance  or  to  steal  away;  his  heart  was  sick 
265 


Life  the  Accuser. 

with  compunction  because  he  recognised  that  he 
himself  was  the  cause  of  the  girl's  sorrow;  he 
saw  that  it  must  be  so,  and  acknowledged  it  with 
perfect  simplicity  and  reverence.  At  first  he  was 
ready  to  steal  quietly  away;  but  if  she  looked 
up  and  saw  him,  how  she  would  be  hurt  by  that ! 
It  was  a  brutal  thing  in  a  man  to  leave  the  woman 
he  had  wounded  without  a  word  of  consolation 
or  help  or  thanks.  He  came  on,  and  she  heard 
his  step  and  opened  her  eyes  with  a  start.  He 
stopped  —  seeing  himself  a  god  within  them ; 
his  heart  was  suffused  with  remorse,  modesty,  and 
sympathetic  pain ;  but  his  own  experience  guided 
him,  and  he  could  not  hurt  the  white  little  suffering 
soul  he  had  found.  It  surprised  him  that  Eliza's 
eyes  could  look  so  beautiful,  and  when  the  colour 
rushed  into  her  delicate  skin  and  she  threw  out- 
lier hands  with  a  cry,  he  ran  and  flung  himself 
on  the  ground  by  her  side.  He  felt  her  quiver 
with  the  passion  his  proximity  brought;  he  knew 
that  in  her  soul  she  clung  to  him.  In  one  breath 
he  excused  and  accused  himself,  for,  without  dream- 
ing it,  he  had  wrought  for  her  a  great  sorrow. 

"Have  you  come  here  every  day  since  —  since 
the  last  time?7'  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Eliza. 

How   much  he   himself  had    traversed !     How 

far  he   had  gone  !     He   wondered  at  it;    he  had 

been   led    on   and   on   by  a   subtle   enchantment 

until   he    had  become    a    different    being.      His 

266 


Cold  Winter. 

manhood,  he  ventured  to  think,  was  a  tougher, 
stronger,  more  serious  thing  than  it  had  been, 
and  thereat  he  sent  up  a  humble  aspiration  that 
he  might  be  a  more  tender  thing  also.  For  mean- 
while Eliza  had  waited  for  him  in  the  pine-wood. 

"You  are  very  silent,  Eliza,"  said  he,  after 
the  long  pause  his  many  thoughts  occasioned. 

"  I  would  just  as  soon  talk  in  a  concert-room 
as  in  a  fir-wood,"  said  she. 

"But  you  used  to  talk.  Talk  to  me  now,"  he 
pleaded. 

"  Very  well." 

He  looked  at  her  downcast  face,  telling  himself 
out  of  his  own  experience  what  hers  must  have 
been.  It  was  sharper  and  worse,  he  told  himself, 
because  she  only  sat  and  waited.  It  seemed  so 
simple  to  him  and  natural  and  yet  so  piteous  that 
he  could  not  help  speaking  of  it. 

"  Do  forgive  me,  Eliza,"  said  he,  very  humbly. 

She  waited  a  very  long  time  before  her  startled 
heart  found  its  reply. 

"Why?  "said  she. 

"  Because  I  am  so  sorry." 

She  waited  a  long  —  a  very  long  time  again ; 
it  was  also  very  simple  to  her,  but  then  her  heart 
felt  startled. 

"I  don't  think  you  need  be,"  said  she,  "and 
I  have  not  got  any  feeling  in  my  heart  that  makes 
me  need  to  forgive." 

"Thank  you,"  said  he. 

267 


Life  the  Accuser. 

He  felt  that  he  had  to  be  very  simple  and  open  ; 
he  pushed  the  fir-needles  about  with  his  stick,  and 
spoke  again  suddenly. 

"  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  Rosalie,"  said  he. 

"  Of  course,"  she  returned ;  "  I  knew  you 
would." 

And  then  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  trunk 
of  the  tree.  After  a  time  he  ventured  to  look 
at  her,  and  saw  the  pain  and  whiteness  in  her  face  ; 
it  drooped  a  little  towards  his  shoulder  with  closed 
eyes,  and  it  reminded  him,  lying  thus  against 
the  dark  rough  bark  of  the  tree,  of  nothing  so 
much  as  of  a  soft  white  moth  that  has  been  in- 
advertently crushed.  He  did  not  know  if  it  was 
right,  but  he  stretched  his  hand  and  took  hers  in 
its  clasp. 

"  I  said  we  should  be  friends,"  he  said,  in  an- 
guish. 

"  And  I  the  same,"  she  murmured. 

Her  ringers  were  tiny  in  his  palm,  but  he  felt 
their  pressure.  Two  great  tears  stole  down  her 
cheeks,  and  he  turned  away,  his  lips  working ;  but 
he  did  not  know  that  the  saltness  of  them  was  for 
him  and  not  for  herself. 


268 


Cold  Winter. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

DISTURBED  by  the  fearful  glimpse  into  the  weak- 
ness of  her  own  nature,  Constantia  sought  safety 
in  absence  from  home.  She  took  a  cottage  in  a 
lonely  spot,  and,  released  from  the  exacting  claims 
of  domestic  life,  felt  the  power  of  thought  returning. 
Her  starting-point  was  consistent  with  the  simpli- 
city of  her  character.  She  had  no  conception  of  a 
method  of  action  other  than  what  was  based  on 
sincerity  and  a  complete  recognition  of  the  truth ; 
mere  skillful  management  of  the  position  was  mean- 
ingless to  her,  and  she  could  see  nothing  lying  be- 
tween some  sheer  definition  of  her  own  standpoint 
or  the  surrender  of  her  nature  to  her  husband's. 

Her  first  temptation  left  her  conscious  that  the 
thing  warring  most  against  the  bit  of  clear  individ- 
ual judgment  necessary  to  the  event  was  her  prac- 
tice of  self-surrender  as  a  wife.  There  is  nothing 
in  the  constitution  of  things  to  ensure  us  against 
being  entrapped  by  virtue  itself  when  it  has  become 
habitual.  It  made  no  difference  that  her  surrender 
had  ever  kept  within  itself  the  possibility  of  reserve 
and  denial,  that  the  gift  had  been  in  strength  and 
not  in  weakness — a  choice  and  deliberate  exercise 
269 


Life  the  Accuser. 

in  affection.  In  spite  of  the  acquittal  of  conscience 
in  this  review  of  the  higher  emotions,  she  knew  that 
if  treachery  was  there  to  entrap  her,  it  lurked  within 
her  habit  as  a  wife,  tempting  her  to  fall  with  the 
fallen  rather  than  accept  the  scission  which  the 
retainment  of  her  own  moral  standpoint  required. 
Herein  was  the  uttermost  poignancy  and  inward- 
ness of  the  sorrow. 

But  if  anything  less  than  clear  reading  of  this 
fact  of  sorrow  was  impossible  to  her,  so  was  the 
idea  of  revenge.  It  even  troubled  her  to  be  so 
beaten  by  a  storm  of  personal  pain  as  to  be  unable 
to  reach  a  vantage-ground  of  thought.  How  then 
would  it  help  if  she  chose  to  range  through  life 
as  the  assailer  of  the  man  she  loved  or  of  men  in 
general  because  of  his  wrong  ?  The  practised  calm- 
ness of  her  mother-life  forbade  such  an  attitude ;  it 
was  impossible  for  Constantia  to  be  pushed  by  an 
injury  into  the  chaotic  realm  of  angry  reprisal,  or  to 
bring  the  addition  of  herself  to  the  too  universal 
discord.  Not  in  wrath  lay  the  solution  of  the  prob- 
lems of  life  for  herself  or  any. 

Thought  at  first  could  reach  no  further  than  the 
knowledge  that  help  was  only  to  be  found  if  she 
could  fling  herself  beyond  this  darkening,  stabbing 
mist  of  the  personal.  She  must  tear  away  through 
the  net  of  anguish  that  pinned  her  to  the  ground  if 
she  was  to  see  into  the  event  its  deepest  reality, 
and  so  arriving  at  its  true  proportion  and  signifi- 
cance be  able  to  feel  and  act  in  some  profound 
270 


Cold  Winter. 

accord  with  the  hidden  truth.     But  it  was  hard  to 
lift  herself  so  far. 

*'  The  wings  of  my  heart  are  broken,"  said  she, 
"  and  I  cannot  lift  myself  so  far." 

She  sat  as  a  beggar  by  the  wayside,  a  creature 
deprived  of  home,  riches,  and  the  very  garments  of 
wonted  use ;  her  sweet  wounded  memories  wept 
tears  of  blood  with  her,  and  all  her  children  were 
naked  woes. 

Nevertheless  the  impression  rested  in  her  mind 
with  faintly  beckoning  significance  of  a  far-away 
calm  atmosphere ;  thinking  of  it,  she  brought  her 
lips  dimly  to  syllable  the  word  "  God."  And  yet  it 
was  not  too  far,  but  was  an  interpenetrating,  all- 
comprehending  something,  which,  like  the  heat  and 
light  of  the  sun,  fell  equally  on  the  just  and  the 
unjust,  nourishing  the  evil  man  as  well  as  the  good, 
holding  all  within  its  circle,  and  counting  none  either 
first  or  last.  77  did  not  separate. 

"  If  I  could  get  there,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  I 
should  see  Norman  again." 

Constantia  had  never  been  a  religious  woman, 
and  was  unbiassed  by  any  dogma.  The  idea  of  the 
personal  God  she  rejected  and  shrank  from.  She 
wanted  no  God  that  would  take  sides  with  herself 
and  revenge  her  injury;  she  wanted  a  mental 
atmosphere  in  which  she  could  see  Norman  again 
and  readjust  her  power  of  loving  him  to  something 
consistent  with  the  fact  of  what  he  was  and  with 
her  own  moral  integrity.  Such  a  plan  of  thought 
271 


Life  the  Accuser. 

she  sought,  her  hands  about  her  knees,  her  head 
upon  them  in  the  darkness  of  humiliation. 

"  Where  is  the  God  who  permitted  my  own  love 
to  wound  me,  and  who  understands  him,  and  knows 
the  reason?" 

The  mother  in  her  never  went  out  even  in  the 
moment  of  her  uttermost  pain.  She  called  through 
this  night  of  pain  to  be  delivered  from  that  distrac- 
tion of  personal  torment  which  shook  the  lineaments 
of  her  sorrow,  and  to  be  permitted  again  to  touch 
the  human  prerogative  which  makes  possible  the 
difficult  phases  of  life  —  the  prerogative  of  seeing 
by  sympathetic  insight  that  other  as  well  as  the  Self. 
Trembling  and  blinded  by  her  anguish  of  wife,  it 
was  through  her  motherhood  that  she  reached  hands 
of  understanding  up  to  the  Soul  of  all  Humanity. 
She  knelt,  praying  hour  by  hour  for  light  and  for 
light,  for  supreme  calm,  —  for  such  a  calm  as  held 
her  when  the  children  about  her  were  wrong  and 
unhappy. 

"  This  burden  is  heavy,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  weak 
and  have  no  husband.  I  have  to  be  mother  to  all." 

The  blameless  prayer  is  the  strong  effective  prayer, 
—  the  prayer  spoken  to  the  high  part  of  mind. 
Many  prayers  are  uttered  in  deepest  sincerity  to 
fiends  conjured  from  the  murky  confusion  of  the 
character.  There  is  nothing  in  the  human  exposi- 
tions of  religion  to  prevent  the  murderer  asking  for 
a  high  place  in  Heaven,  the  cheat  and  the  gambler 
that  their  scheme  may  be  successful,  the  vain  man 
272 


Cold  Winter. 

or  woman  that  the  heart  of  the  rival  may  be  pierced 
by  failure. 

Thought  grew  clearer  at  last.  One  day  she  had 
a  flashing  suggestion  of  placing  herself  in  the  posi- 
tion of  her  husband,  and  imagining  him  in  her  own. 
Suppose  it  were  so  ;  let  her  be  the  false  one.  Con- 
ventionality and  the  law  gave  at  once  a  remedy  into 
his  hands ;  he  could  punish  by  repudiation,  dis- 
grace, and  divorce.  But  what  would  be  the  mean- 
ing of  such  punishment?  Hardly  a  freeing  of  him- 
self and  children  from  a  contaminating  influence,  or 
a  solemn  act  of  protest  against  a  deed  he  must 
never  connive  in ;  for  an  act  of  infidelity  on  his 
side  towards  her  was  not  recognised  as  a  wrong  by 
the  law,  and  scarcely  so  by  convention.  The  pun- 
ishment would  therefore  be  an  act  of  vengeance. 
But  she  had  already  discarded  the  idea  of  revenge 
as  a  mere  spread  of  the  discord  and  mischief,  which 
no  hurt  on  her  own  part  could  justify.  But  why 
did  convention  and  the  law  thus  safeguard  her 
faithfulness  to  her  husband  by  terrors  and  threats? 

She  raised  her  arms,  and  clasped  her  hands  behind 
her  head,  and  her  eyes  darkened  under  her  knit 
brows.  She  turned  the  question  over  and  over 
until  it  lightened  towards  her  with  the  suddenness 
of  a  new  idea.  Under  this  strange  legal  coercion  — 
she  put  aside  for  the  moment  the  accompanying 
injustice  —  lay  perhaps  the  recognition  of  a  simple 
natural  truth.  It  was  not  a  truth  which  she  had 
expected  to  find,  but  when  anguish  sharpens  the 
18 


Life  the  Accuser. 

faculties,  the  every-day  truths  which  lie  on  the  sur- 
face of  things,  but  which  are  concealed  from  the 
eyes  by  a  veil  of  habit,  come  into  prominence  again. 
Constantia  was  startled  by  what  she  said,  but  in- 
stinctively thrust  out  her  hand  and  seized  it  as  one 
wandering  in  a  hopeless  labyrinth  seizes  the  shim- 
mering silver  thread  that  is  the  faint  guide  to  the 
exit. 

"  Here  is  the  clue,"  said  she  ;  "  I  cannot  see 
yet,  but  I  have  the  clue  in  my  hand.  One  day  I 
shall  step  out  of  this  darkness  into  light." 

She  occupied  herself  with  the  thought,  walking 
miles  and  miles  alone  over  the  country  and  holding 
no  communication  with  any  single  creature.  She 
tried  it  in  all  possible  ways,  and  in  every  aspect  in 
which  she  considered  it  she  found  that  it  radiated 
light.  Above  all,  the  shining  from  it  fell  upon  the 
ground  about  her  own  feet,  and  showed  her  as  it 
were  a  bit  of  rock  on  which  she  might  stand  firmly 
and  meet  the  shocks  of  fate. 

When  at  last  she  returned  home,  it  was  as  a 
changed  creature.  She  had  effected  that  necessary 
release  of  herself  from  the  tie  of  sense  and  from 
the  habit  of  surrender  which  had  numbed  her 
power  of  judgment,  and  though  her  anguish  was  still 
supreme,  it  no  longer  threatened  her  moral  force 
with  submergence. 

Norman  awaited  her  return  with  uneasy  surmise. 
The  game  was  not  going  as  he  had  meant  it ;  he 
had  willed  to  have  his  hand  upon  it  at  every  point, 
274 


Cold  Winter. 

and  it  seemed,  on  the  contrary,  to  have  laid  its 
hand  upon  him.  He  felt  about  him  the  hostility 
and  plotting  of  secret  foes  —  foes  that  were  spiritual 
as  well  as  human.  Armstrong's  threat  and  Evan's 
glance  of  surprise  were  gall  to  his  memory,  and  the 
thought  of  his  own  capitulation  in  the  matter  of  the 
mines  bitter  aloes ;  his  sensitiveness  breathed  up 
evil  odours  and  shuddered,  and  he  felt  that  the 
freedom  and  pride  of  his  bearing  was  mere  self- 
imitation.  He  had  shut  his  mind  upon  the  ques- 
tion what  Constantia's  absence  meant,  and  he  would 
hardly  own  that  he  dreaded  her  return.  When  she 
came  if  was  not  to  the  old  place  as  regards  him, 
and  her  face  was  a  closed  page.  She  was  not  cold, 
it  was  worse  than  that.  She  treated  him  with  the 
kindly  courtesy  one  expects  from  the  stranger  in 
the  street.  She  made  him  feel  afraid.  He  was 
stupefied  by  her  attitude ;  he  questioned  nothing, 
but  permitted  her  to  do  as  she  wished  in  every  par- 
ticular, acquiescing  in  the  changes  she  made  without 
a  word.  It  shook,  as  never  before  had  it  been 
shaken,  his  faith  in  his  own  prescience  and  judg- 
ment, that  she  should  thus  display  this  silent  hidden 
force. 

"  Are  we  strangers  ?  Where  is  my  wife  gone  ? 
Was  it  worth  bartering  so  much  ?  " 

He  was  staring  at  the  bedroom  door  which  Con- 

stantia  had  locked  behind  her.     He  walked  along 

in  his  own  house  as  a  stranger,  and  when  he  sat 

down  and  thought  of  that  locked  door,  he  lost  sight 

275 


Life  the  Accuser. 

of  the  more  subtle  spiritual  questionings  in  view  of 
the  simply  human  realisation  that  the  word  "  home  " 
meant,  after  all,  "  Constantia. " 

Meanwhile  Constantia,  in  the  circle  of  her  own 
separate  experience,  by  no  means  held  to  the  slight 
footing  of  safety  she  had  obtained  without  difficulty. 
Her  determination  not  to  be  wrecked  by  what  had 
happened  was  tried  by  daily  occurrences;  her  reso- 
lution that  she  herself  would  stand  in  the  breach 
against  the  gathering  disaster  was  put  continually  to 
the  test.  We  measure  our  force  always  by  the 
greatness  of  the  trial,  and  neglect  in  the  calculation 
the  multitude  of  stinging  smallnesses  that  accom- 
pany it. 

One  day  she  came  upon  a  packet  containing  evi- 
dences of  his  unfaithfulness,  and  the  rush  of  over- 
whelming feeling  with  which  she  saw  it  seemed  at 
first  a  justification  for  desertion  of  that  higher  guid- 
ance to  which  she  had  bound  herself.  She  had  to 
learn  herself  over  again  by  the  light  of  this  experi- 
ence as  a  creature  of  like  passions  with  others.  It 
cost  hours  of  anguish  before  she  could  attain  com- 
posure enough  to  recall  that  clearer  atmosphere  to 
which  she  had  aspired  and  named  "  God  ; "  but 
through  the  returning  turmoil  she  still  had  power  to 
try  and  aspire  upwards.  And  at  last  the  discord 
she  repudiated  was  stilled. 

"Why,"  said  she  to  herself,  "should  I  be  unable 
to  think  of  this  woman  with  common  forbearance 
and  patience  because  the  wrong  she  has  done  has 
276 


Cold  Winter. 

hurt  mel  If  it  were  another  man  than  Norman 
with  whom  she  had  fallen,  should  I  not  have  meted 
out  a  measure  of  compassion  with  my  judgment? 
If  it  had  been  some  other  man  than  my  own  hus- 
band, and  yet  I  had  to  deal  in  the  matter,  should  I 
find  the  position  so  overwhelming  to  my  judgment, 
and  the  clue  to  it  so  buried  in  reproaches  and 
personal  pain?" 

Then  again  she  took  the  event  as  her  mother- 
heart  might  have  taken  some  perverse  and  wicked 
child,  and  sought  into  its  meaning  with  all  her  ten- 
der mother-wit  and  wisdom,  and  soothed  down  the 
soreness  of  a  point  here  and  there,  and  abated 
the  fury  of  its  smart  with  mild  impersonal  reason- 
ableness. 

The  packet  contained  letters  from  Rosalie  to  her 
husband ;  her  temptation  was  to  read  them. 

"No,"  said  she  to  herself,  "those  are  the 
love-letters  of  another  woman.  I  have  not  the 
right." 

There  was  a  faded  flower  or  so  and  a  likeness ; 
the  case  of  the  latter  she  opened,  and  gazed  upon 
it  with  but  slight  emotion.  Her  power  of  suffering 
seemed  in  part  exhausted.  She  even  found  the 
portrait  interesting,  and  noted  its  charm  and  beauty ; 
unthinkingly  she  blew  away  a  spot  of  dust  that  rested 
on  the  cheek. 

Then  she  took  the  packet  into  her  own  posses- 
sion, and  locked  it  in  the  place  where  she  had  a 
habit  of  gathering  those  things  which  Norman's 
277 


Life  the  Accuser. 

carelessness  left  unguarded.  At  night,  when  he 
came  home,  he  found  her  a  beautiful  kind  stranger 
in  his  house,  and  all  his  preconceptions  fell  away 
into  ashes. 

But  grief  is  many-sided,  and  there  were  days 
when  her  self-respect  swooned  before  the  blow  it 
had  received.  Day  after  day  it  might  be  so  ;  day 
after  day  she  seemed  to  strive  with  a  burden  she 
could  not  lift.  The  blow  had  been  double-edged, 
and  cut  the  springs  of  joy  in  two  places.  Not 
only  had  she  failed  to  keep  her  heart's  love,  but  she 
was  palsied  by  the  feeling  that  she  had  bestowed 
her  own  unworthily ;  the  father  of  her  children  had 
fallen  from  her  respect.  And  if  any  one  knew  it ! 
Against  this  dread  she  could  not  rise  —  the  eyes  of 
the  world  upon  //,  upon  him !  She  shrank  before 
imagined  words,  and  her  eyes  caught  pictured 
glances.  This  sick  and  cruel  phantasy  was  an  in- 
tolerable torment ;  no  meek  submission  could  bring 
peace  from  the  assault.  At  last  she  found  that 
agony  thrust  her  to  that  timid  courage  which  calls 
down  the  blow  upon  itself. 

"  At  least,"  said  she,  "  let  the  first  stone  be  cast 
by  the  hand  of  a  friend." 

And  then  she  sent  for  Irene. 

Constantia  received  her  in  the  work-room,  which 
was  consecrated  amongst  other  uses  to  long  confi- 
dential discussions  between  the  two. 

"  It  is  not  the  children,'7  she  explained  quickly, 
when  her  sister  had  seated  herself  and  with  ordinary 


Cold  Winter. 

composure  drawn  a  small  embroidery  case  from  her 
pocket. 

Irene,  who  had  taken  for  granted  that  some 
scheme  about  the  children  was  to  be  the  subject, 
instinctively  laid  aside  her  work  and  contemplated 
her  sister  more  narrowly,  seeing  for  the  first  time 
the  traces  which  anguish  had  left  on  her  brow. 
Constantia,  faltering  under  the  burden  of  speech,  led 
her  on  by  degrees.  She  drew  a  hypothetical  case 
of  a  girl  in  good  position  who  might  form  a  different 
conception  of  moral  conduct  from  their  own,  and 
who  might  —  act  on  it.  She  sketched  her  incident 
as  lightly  as  she  could,  in  hints  and  figures  of  speech, 
her  tongue  shrinking  from  the  bitter  nature  of  its 
subject. 

Irene  listened  in  wondering  silence  ;  she  formed 
no  idea  of  the  event  as  it  touched  Constantia,  but 
leapt  to  some  apprehension  of  the  nature  of  the 
case.  The  girl  was  Rosalie,  of  course ;  the  thing 
that  had  happened  was  that  her  instinct's  dim  fore- 
boding was  realised. 

"  You  are  speaking  of  Rosalie  Trelyon,"  said  she, 
after  consideration ;  "  you  are  telling  me  that  she 
has  made  —  a  great  mistake." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  murmured  Constantia. 

"  It  probably  is  so,"  continued  Irene,  firmly ; 
"  recklessness  such  as  Rosalie's  might  easily  lapse 
into  something  destructive." 

"Yes?"  said  Constantia. 

"  Leaps  in  the  dark  by  reckless  people  are  very 
279 


Life  the  Accuser. 

harmful.  On  the  other  hand,  if  women  blameless 
in  life  and  spirit  would  but  take  their  stand  Calmly 
and  frankly  upon  a  natural  basis  instead  of  huddling 
the  physical  away  and  denying  their  own  nature,! 
think  fewer  errors  would  be  made.  Cleanly  people 
see  things  truly.  Vice  throws  the  glamour  of 
vicious  mystery  over  this  subject,  and  a  woman's 
duplicity  about  it  is  a  reflection  of  a  bad  man's 
vice." 

So  Irene  talked,  feeling  that  her  phrases  though 
true  in  themselves  were  somehow  failing  of  their 
mark.  A  heaviness  of  heart  out  of  the  range  of 
theory  lay  between  herself  and  sister.  But  Con- 
stantia  listened  willingly ;  so  far  she  was  not  hurt. 
Was  it  perhaps  possible  that  Irene's  mind  might 
prove  a  fortress  from  which  an  enemy  would  not 
shoot  darts?  And  would  she  understand  any- 
thing about  the  common  way  along  which  human- 
ity falters  and  she  herself  was  creeping  in  ragged 
destitution?  For  who  can  separate  himself  from 
his  near  one's  sin?  She  took  her  sister's  hand 
and  pressed  it  against  her  heart  while  she  looked 
mutely  and  entreatingly  into  her  eyes.  Ah,  but 
what  a  fear  !  If  she  spoke,  the  wild  tiger  of  moral 
indignation  would  spring  from  them  and  tear  her 
trembling  spirit  to  pieces.  None  would  under- 
stand what  she  was  feeling,  that  her  husband's 
unfaithfulness  was  her  own  beggary  and  rags.  She 
bore  him  dishonoured  still  in  her  heart  of  hearts ; 
she  was  humble  as  one  who  asks  an  alms;  her 
280 


Cold  Winter. 

dark  eyes  shrank  terrified  at  the  grey  peace  of 
Irene's.  And  yet  she  spoke.  She  murmured  out 
the  words,  still  with  her  sister's  hand  pressed  against 
her  breast. 

"  Norman  is  not  faithful  to  me,"  she  said.  And 
then  she  told  the  story. 

Irene  listened  in  silence;  her  face,  when  Con- 
stantia  timidly  glanced  at  it,  was  not  to  be  read ; 
in  the  serene  depths  of  the  eyes  were  thoughts; 
presently  a  tear  or  two  dropped  over  her  cheeks. 
That  was  a  momentary  relief;  but  when  would  the 
stones  fall  and  the  cries  of  "  Scoundrel !  Wretch  ! 
Infamy  !  "  come  ? 

Irene  wiped  the  tears  away,  and  folded  her  hands 
on  her  knee. 

"  Oh  ! "  said  she,  "  I  am  sorry  for  him." 

The  tone  was  gentle.  Physical  giddiness  kept 
Constantia  silent  for  many  minutes,  but  during 
that  time  she  found  herself  again  and  called  herself 
again  by  Norman's  name  with  lips  that  did  not 
so  much  tremble ;  after  many  days  the  burning 
spot  of  agony  was  bathed  with  dew. 

"  Irene,"  she  murmured,  scarcely  daring  to  add 
a  word,  "do  you  understand?  You  so  blameless 
—  placed  so  high  —  apart " 

Her  words  broke  off.  Irene's  face  was  changed 
by  a  look  of  pain. 

"  Do  not  do  me  such  an  injustice ! "  cried  she, 
almost  fiercely.  "Can  any  one  of  us  bear  to  be 
isolated  from  the  common  humanity?  Better  to 
281 


Life  the  Accuser. 

fall  than  to  hold  aloof !  Norman's  fall  is  pitiful  — 
but  I  understand.  Rosalie's  fall  is  piteous :  I 
understand  it  —  I  understand.  You  say  I  am 
blameless  ?  So  I  am ;  I  have  that  second-rate 
quality.  But  it  is  not  the  best  of  life,  Constantia ; 
it  is  merely  a  tribute  to  imperfect  social  condi- 
tions. Like  faithfulness  in  a  slave,  mechanical 
obedience  in  a  soldier,  monotonous  industry  in 
a  worker  fighting  the  wolf  at  the  door." 

She  paused,  and  took  up  a  calmer  tone. 

"  Put  my  blamelessness  in  the  right  place,"  she 
continued.  "  All  of  us  suffer,  and  all  of  us  long ; 
most  of  us  enjoy,  and  all  might  enjoy  without  any 
fall.  »  But  each  knows  the  meaning  of  the  social 
bond  of  limitation  laid  on  himself  by  present  con- 
ditions. Unfortunately  some  fall  away  from  that 
bond.  Some  of  us  recognise  it  as  a  second-rate 
affair,  and  yet  hold  to  it  for  all-sufficient  reasons. 
The  worst  women  of  all,  in  despite  and  hate  of 
their  own  virtue,  bind  it  as  an  iron  rule  on  others." 

"  It  is  like  my  own  thought,"  murmured  Con- 
stantia. 


282 


Cold  Winter. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE  ease  of  mental  slumber  came  to  Norman 
as  the  days  went  on,  and  the  surface  peace  with 
them.  He  was  not  bound  to  question  Constantia ; 
the  home  was  not  the  nest  of  joy  it  had  been,  but 
it  was  possible  to  accommodate  himself  to  the 
change,  to  accept  the  hollow  order  in  the  house  and 
waive  the  rest  —  seeing  he  had  his  resources  outside. 

Thus  he  succumbed  to  a  coarser  form  of  the 
temptation  which  had  assailed  Constantia,  almost 
without  a  struggle.  It  had  indeed  become  won- 
derfully easy  to  stifle  self-reproach,  his  sharp 
apprehension  concerning  '  Constantia's  possible 
suffering  having  already  been  blunted  into  callous 
unconcern  at  her  surmises  so  long  as  she  concealed 
them  under  a  surface  peace.  The  face  repeated, 
as  Constantia  noted  with  a  pang,  the  spiritual 
change ;  the  chin  coarsened,  there  was  a  re- 
moulding of  the  nostrils,  and  those  airy  indices 
of  just  and  kindly  character  which  lie  about  the 
brow  and  eyes  began  to  fade. 

One   afternoon,   on   his   return   from   town,    he 

sought  his   wife  in  her  work-room.     He  kept  his 

old   bearing,    though  in  her  eyes,  and   sometimes 

even  in  his  own,  it  had  become  a  conscious  parody. 

283 


Life  the  Accuser. 

In  trifling  matters  all  ran  smoothly  as  hitherto. 
Yet  it  was  just  one  of  these  minor  affairs  that 
brought  about  the  inevitable  crisis  between  them. 
There  was  in  his  character  a  turn  towards  a  care- 
less habit  in  the  handling  of  small  objects :  the 
intrinsic  value  of  them  did  not  make  any  differ- 
ence;  if  they  were  small,  they  were  liable  to 
vanish.  In  the  playful  days  of  their  honeymoon 
it  had  become  an  established  custom  that  Con- 
stantia  should  supplement  this  teasing  irregularity 
by  her  order,  and  so  prevent  the  trickle  of  small 
disasters  which  otherwise  would  have  followed. 
On  that  particular  afternoon  it  was  an  important 
paper  from  his  solicitor  that  had  been  mislaid. 

"  We  have  been  all  upset  in  the  office  to-day," 
said  he,  approaching  Constantia  in  her  place 
between  the  sewing-table  and  the  hearth.  "  I 
received  a  letter  from  my  solicitor  last  week,  and 
imagined  I  had  taken  it  to  town.  If  by  any  chance 
I  left  it  here " 

He  smiled  and  broke  off,  nervously  edging  away 
from  the  air  of  school-boy  delinquency  which  had 
been  habitual  on  these  familiar  occasions.  The 
demeanour  of  his  wife  held  within  it  none  of  those 
unstretched  moments  which  had  been  so  common 
and  had  kept  a  boy-and-girl  freshness  in  their  pri- 
vate intercourse. 

"  I  have  picked  up  several  letters  and  some  other 
things,"  said  she ;    "  I  stowed  them  all  away  to- 
gether.    You  had  better  look." 
284 


Cold  Winter. 

She  spoke  without  strain,  neither  did  her  lip 
tremble  as  she  put  her  hand  in  her  work-basket  to 
draw  out  a  small  key. 

"  In  the  old  place,"  said  she. 

It  passed  through  his  mind  that  no  man's  wife 
could  be  as  she  was  —  so  constant,  equable,  and 
trustworthy.  The  key  belonged  to  a  cabinet  which 
stood  against  the  wall  between  the  two  windows ; 
as  he  walked  across  the  room  and  placed  it  in  the 
lock,  Constantia  laid  down  her  work  —  for  she  knew 
that  their  hour  had  come.  He  opened  the  doors. 
There  were  shelves  and  drawers.  One  of  these 
shelves  was  dedicated  to  his  own  mislaid  property, 
and  he  raised  his  hand  towards  it ;  he  saw  a  few 
letters  and  minor  articles ;  he  saw  also  a  small 
packet.  At  first  it  seemed  as  an  illusion  of  the 
brain,  the  trick  of  the  mind  throwing  into  visible 
appearance  a  haunting  though  secret  thought. 
And  then  it  stood  out  on  the  shelf  in  aggressive 
palpability,  in  a  substance  and  proportion  that 
seemed  to  his  startled  eyes  beyond  hiding  for  ever- 
more. The  packet  was  the  small  collection  of 
Rosalie's  letters  and  her  portrait;  its  position  in 
such  a  place  seemed  a  piece  of  magic  played  on 
him  by  malicious  chance.  And  then  a  fury  seized 
him  to  be  so  tripped  up  —  his  careful  steering 
dashed  on  so  tiny  a  rock ;  it  shamed  him  that  a 
minor  fault  of  character  should  have  betrayed  him 
and  his  schemes  to  this  plight,  and  the  movement  of 
his  anger  went  out  against  the  wife  who  had  stolen 

285 


Life  the  Accuser. 

the  march  upon  him,  and  had  stood  by  in  silence 
watching  and  waiting  on  the  event. 

The  anger  helped  him  for  the  moment.  He 
must  strike  out  and  assert  his  masculine  strength, 
and  if  he  struck  it  must  be  at  her ;  so  he  turned  on 
her  unhesitatingly  with  a  white  and  somewhat  dis- 
torted face.  But  she  did  not  flinch.  She  caught 
this  new  revelation  of  the  possibilities  within  her 
husband's  nature  on  a  firm  front,  and  it  recalled 
him  to  his  better  self.  The  steadiness  of  her  look, 
the  dark  eyes  in  the  oval  face  sorrowing  but  calm, 
stopped  any  fatal  words  before  they  were  spoken, 
and  controlled  the  tumult  of  his  heart.  He  had 
walked  rapidly  towards  her  with  madness  on  his 
lips,  but,  reaching  her,  he  found  he  was  standing 
silently  holding  in  his  hand  the  packet  which  of  all 
others  he  had  wished  to  conceal. 

On  him  lay  the  obligation  of  the  first  speech,  for 
though  she  continued  to  look  steadily  at  him,  she 
uttered  no  word. 

"You  have  read  these  things?"  he  brought  him- 
self to  ask. 

"  I  have  not.  They  are  the  love-letters  of  an- 
other woman." 

That  surprised  without  consoling  him.  He  took 
a  turn  or  two  through  the  room. 

"  Damn  the  things  !  "  said  he,  coming  to  a  stand 
before  her  again,  and  dropping  the  packet  on  to 
the  tiles  of  the  hearth. 

There  was  a  sound  of  broken  glass.  Constantia 
286 


Cold  Winter. 

stooped,  picked  the  case  up,  freed  the  uninjured 
portrait  from  the  glass,  and  set  it  up  against  a  vase 
on  her  table.  She  laid  the  letters  quietly  beside  them. 

"Why  don't  you  burn  them?"  asked  Norman, 
chokingly. 

"They  are  not  mine." 

What  in  heaven's  name  was  he  to  do  ?  Accusa- 
tions and  reproaches  would  have  been  easier  to 
manage ;  they  would  have  called  into  play  his  role 
of  man,  he  could  have  received  any  turbulence  that 
rushed  upon  himself  with  strong  opposing  breast. 
But  there  she  sat  quietly  alone,  leaving  the  situation 
to  him.  He  walked  through  the  room  with  troubled, 
quailing  eyes. 

He  had  impulses  of  love-making.  Constantia 
(with  other  women)  had  found  the  sexual  suasion 
in  which  he  was  gifted  hitherto  irresistible ;  he  was 
tempted  to  put  forth  that  side  of  masculine  power. 
But  he  was  also  a  master  in  tact,  and  it  served  him 
now  in  the  place  of  rectitude.  His  mind  swiftly 
recognised  the  uncommonness  in  her  attitude  and 
conduct,  and  the  futility  of  meeting1  her  with  com- 
mon weapons.  This  breach  was  not  to  be  healed 
either  by  dominance  or  a  kiss.  A  dark  and  hither- 
to undiscovered  continent  within  the  nature  of  his 
wife  was  disclosed  to  him ;  unknown  still  in  quality, 
he  perceived  that  it  was  there,  and  that  his  best 
chance  lay  in  leaping  blindly  to  that,  and  discarding 
in  the  moment  every  known  and  familiar  portion. 

Constantia  by  this  time  had  risen  to  her  feet,  a 
287 


Life  the  Accuser. 

recognition  of  the  stress  he  was  under  called  out 
this  subtle  deference  ;  but  she  remained  where  she 
was,  her  eyes  cast  down,  and  her  aspect  one  of 
waiting.  He  reached  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
and,  standing  by  the  windows,  caught  unconsciously 
on  the  retina  of  his  eye  the  wintry  chill  of  the  land- 
scape, the  last  leaves  shivering  frailly  on  the  elm- 
trees,  a  bird  or  two  standing  on  the  twigs  and 
puffing  out  its  feathers  for  warmth.  And  then  it 
suddenly  happened  to  him  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  turn  round  and  address  this  wife  of  twenty  years 
with  the  bare  respectful  truth-speaking  which  he 
might  have  addressed  to  a  man.  His  tone  was 
very  gentle,  and  his  manner  reflected  the  simplicity 
of  hers. 

"Yes,  Constantia,"  said  he,  "it  is  so." 

"  You  mean  you  are  unfaithful  to  me  ?  " 

He  found  this  far  too  sheer  a  description,  but  he 
bowed  to  it. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  so  before  ?  " 

He  looked  surprised.  His  attitude  became 
tenser.  He  hesitated,  and  then  resolved. 

"  Yes,  I  was  unfaithful  —  if  you  will  call  it  so  — 
before." 

"When?" 

"  About  five  years  after  our  marriage." 

"Why?" 

Norman's  eyes  fell  before  this  woman's,  and  an 
expression  of  pained  perplexity  came  into  his  face. 
It  was  all  very  well  to  speak  the  truth  to  her  as 
288 


Cold  Winter. 

though  she  were  a  man,  since  she  stood  up  to  him 
like  this,  but  he  felt  appalled  and  confused  by  a 
tingling  sense  of  her  innocence. 

"  Really,  Constantia,"  he  said,  "  these  are  not 
things  I  can  or  ought  to  discuss  with  you." 

"  They  are  things  you  did" 

Norman's  mind  travelled  over  the  whole  range  of 
possible  refuges,  palliations,  replies,  and  subterfuges. 
In  fancy  her  eyes  followed  him  everywhere.  He 
found  himself  constrained  at  the  last  to  fall  back 
once  more  on  uttermost  simplicity. 

"Just  so,"  said  he. 

Constantia  in  her  turn  walked  through  the  room ; 
it  had  become  difficult  for  either  to  sit  down. 
Arrived  at  the  window,  she  did  not  take  in  the  de- 
tails of  the  chill  landscape  as  Norman  did ;  she  saw 
instead  herself  standing  by  Norman's  side  in  un- 
questioning trust  in  that  past  year  to  which  he 
had  referred.  It  was  the  year  after  Ronald's 
birth ;  Connie  and  Ted  were  as  yet  unthought  of. 
Her  heart  pitied  her  own  children.'  Then  the 
blood  surged  up  from  it  to  her  cheek  and  back 
again;  she  could  hardly  have  told  whether  the 
flood  of  agonising  shame  was  for  herself  or  for 
Norman. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me?" 

She  said  it  without  turning  round,  the  question 
rising  unbidden  from  her  heart,  and  she  did  not  see 
the  start  of  amazed  perplexity  with  which  he  re- 
ceived it.  If  he  had  discovered  an  unknown  terri- 
19  289 


Life  the  Accuser. 

tory  in  her  nature,  he  was  keenly  aware  that  each 
moment  was  showing  her  an  unsuspected  portion  of 
himself.  But  was  the  combat  an  equal  one  ?  He 
was  already  parrying  defensively  the  unconscious 
skill  of  her  dreadful  thrusts. 

"Really,  Constantia,  what  can  you  mean?  Tell 
you  !  — you  ?  "  he  faltered. 

She  remained  standing  against  the  window  with 
her  back  to  him ;  one  hand  was  clenched  against 
the  frame,  and  she  leaned  her  forehead  upon  it, 
staring  out  without  seeing  anything. 

"  Who  was  the  woman  ?  "  she  insisted. 

"  Constantia  ! "  implored  Norman ;  "  I  beg  that 
you  will  not  question  me  in  this  manner.  It  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  allow  it.  I  cannot  —  insult  you 
with  such  confidences." 

His  pallor  accentuated  his  bitterness. 

"  You  insult  me  with  your  confidences  —  you  !  — 
the  father  of  my  children  !  "  she  repeated  in  a  low 
voice,  still  staring  out  of  the  window. 

"Very  well,  then,"  returned  Norman,  desperately; 
"  it  had  neither  beginning  nor  end,  neither  a  yester- 
day nor  a  to-morrow.  Constantia,  these  are  not 
things  I  willingly  bring  to  your  ears." 

"  They  are  what  you  did"  she  murmured  once 
more. 

He  stood  in  helpless  fury,  perplexed  for  a  reply. 

"  And  she  ?  "  came  the  next  inquiry,  in  the  same 
level,  restrained  voice. 

Norman  made  an  incoherent  exclamation,  and 
290 


Cold  Winter. 

took  a  step  or  two  towards  her.  Then  he  turned 
back. 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't  bring  her  in  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed in  angry  scorn. 

"Oh,  but  why  treat  her  with  contempt?  You 
brought  her  into  your  —  our  life." 

Norman  sank  down  suddenly  into  a  chair,  and, 
taking  out  his  handkerchief,  wiped  the  sweat  from 
his  brow. 

"  Why  was  it?  Was  it  my  fault?  Good  Lord  ! 
no." 

"When  was  it?" 

He  was  white  as  a  sheet.  If  he  could  but  have 
got  to  her  face  !  But  she  stood  at  the  window,  and 
he  saw  nothing  but  her  back  and  the  gloom  of  the 
winter  afternoon  closing  in  about  her. 

"  I  said  about  five  years  after  our  marriage.  I 
mean  when  I  went  that  voyage.  Constantia,  dorft 
make  me  speak  !  " 

He  felt  that  he  could  have  sobbed  like  a  child, 
but  he  only  sighed.  They  were  continents  apart ; 
he  had  no  idea  of  the  working  of  her  mind.  Her 
next  words  brought  him  to  his  feet  with  a  cry. 

"In  your  absence  I  remained  faithful  to  you* 
Norman." 

She  turned  as  she  spoke,  revealing  herself  to  him 
with  a  simple  gesture,  her  hands  lightly  touching  her 
breast,  her  eyes  appealing. 

"  Constantia  I " 

He  walked  towards  her  quickly  in  a  sort  of 
291 


Life  the  Accuser. 

breathless  terror;  he  wanted  to  tear  her  hands 
down,  to  take  that  look  out  of  her  face.  He  feared 
lest  she  should  speak  again. 

"Hush!  How  am  I  to  bear  it?  Of  course  I 
never  dreamed  —  never  dreamed  of  questioning 
such  a  thing." 

He  was  so  inexpressibly  shocked  that  his  hands 
and  knees  trembled. 

"  My  dear  love,"  he  ventured,  timidly  laying  a 
finger  upon  her  sleeve,  "  what  can  make  you  talk  in 
this  shocking  way  ?  " 

His  face  was  near  hers  now,  and  the  dark  eyes 
looked  straight  into  his. 

"  You  were  not  faithful ;  might  you  not  be  doubt- 
ing me?" 

"  You  are  crazed  !  Don't  smite  me  in  this  way. 
I  repeat,  such  an  idea  has  not  remotely  passed  my 
mind.  You  must  not  bring  yourself  in.  You  !  — 
the  mother  of  my  children  ! " 

"  But  you  —  the  father  of  mine  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  know.  I  dare  say  you  will  look  at  it  in 
that  way.  But,  dear  love,  dear  child,  all  this  was 
years  ago.  Can  you  not  at  any  rate  pass  this  over? 
Why  should  we  go  back  to  this  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  misunderstanding  my  married  life 
all  along.  I  must  teach  myself  to  understand  it." 

"  Yes  —  yes.     But  is  this  any  part  of  it?  " 

Her  dark  eyes  flashed. 

"  It  is  part  of  the  man  I  married." 

His  face  fell. 

292 


Cold  Winter. 

"  Constantia,  you  are  bitterly  hard  on  me,"  said 
he  humbly. 

"There  you  misconceive,"  said  she;  "but  it  is 
necessary  to  understand.  I  find  that  I  have  wholly 
misread  my  position  with  you.  I  find  I  have  estab- 
lished my  relations  with  you  on  one  basis,  and  you 
with  me  on  another." 

"  That  is  a  very  unjust  way  of  putting  it,"  said 
he.  "  On  my  honour,  there  have  been  only  these 
two  occasions.  It  is  saying  more  than  a  good 
many  men  could." 

His  voice  plucked  up  a  sharper  tone.  He  found 
himself  subtly  wounded  by  that  assurance  that  he 
was  mistaken  in  charging  her  with  bitterness.  Ex- 
plosive storms  were  what  he  really  longed  for ;  this 
coherent  demand  to  "  understand "  hurt  his  pride 
both  as  a  man  and  a  husband.  Whatever  he  was 
to  her,  she  to  him  must  remain  the  flawless  thing, 
the  hymn  to  the  stars,  the  ideal.  He  could  not 
bear  her  movement  out  of  her  shrine  to  handle  a 
common  topic.  He  regretted  the  whole  matter  — 
especially  the  going  back  on  so  trivial  and  sordid 
an  event ;  and  he  had  space  for  some  discursion, 
for  his  last  remark  had  dropped  on  silence.  Notic- 
ing it,  he  believed  her  heart  surcharged,  and  hated 
himself  anew.  What  had  it  come  to  that  he  should 
thrust  at  this  delicate  feminine  creature,  whom  it 
was  his  duty  and  pride  to  protect,  with  news  from  a 
masculine  world? 

"  I  am  so  unwilling  to  offend  you  with  these  mat- 
293 


Life  the  Accuser. 

ters/'  he  murmured.  "  Your  purity  is  very  beautiful 
to  me.  And,  Constantia,  I  am  not  defending  my- 
self for  what  I  recognise  as  a  wrong.  Of  course  I 
wish  that  my  nature  had  a  strain  more  perfection. 
But  few  men  have.  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  under- 
stand if  I  say  that  quite  possibly  a  gain  here  might 
be  a  loss  elsewhere.  You  cannot  expect  me  to  be 
different  from  my  kind.  I  am  miserable  at  speak- 
ing of  such  facts  to  you." 

She  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  stood  with  bent 
head,  her  ringers  linked,  her  aspect  as  one  in  re- 
flection. 

"You  are  not  then  ashamed  of  your  own 
nature  ?  " 

"  I  have  to  accept  it."  He  groaned  at  his  futility. 
"  It  is  ill,"  cried  he,  "  when  a  man  and  a  woman 
argue  together  on  such  a  point." 

"  But  you  said  '  facts.'  " 

"Well,  yes.  Constantia,  I  am  so  unwilling  to 
offend." 

"  Facts.  And  if  there  are  facts,  why  should  they 
frighten  me  ?  Have  I  proved  myself  a  coward  or 
a  fool?" 

"  My  dear  love  !  God  knows  what  a  wife  you 
have  been." 

"  To  whom  have  I  been  a  wife  ?  To  what  am  I 
a  wife  ?  Did  you  speak  of  my  purity  ?  " 

"  For  which  I  worship  you,"  he  threw  in  eagerly. 

She  moved  from  her  place  by  the  window,  and 
walked  once  or  twice  up  and  down  the  room.  The 
294 


Cold  Winter. 

dimness  of  the  light  somewhat  transfigured  her  face. 
He  saw  it  passing  through  the  space  before  him,  a 
little  uplifted,  the  delicate  profile  (touched  with  the 
sobriety  of  years  and  maternity)  which  he  knew  so 
well,  but  which  was  subtly  altered  now  by  emotion 
and  thought,  until  it  became  a  visionary  face  in  a 
dream  —  a  message,  a  symbol  from  the  spiritual 
hidden  within  this  breaking  crust  of  outward 
circumstance,  and  confronting  him  for  the  moment 
barely. 

"  What  a  thing  is  this  he  tells  me,"  he  heard  her 
voice  murmuring  to  herself,  "  the  purity  of  his  wife 
has  weaved  the  snare  for  her  own  husband." 

"  How  can  you  so  wilfully  misunderstand  me?" 

"  But  I  understand  for  the  first  time.  I  follow. 
I  see  —  only  too  well.  Will  you  not  understand  me 
also?" 

He  looked  without  answering. 

"  This  purity  you  talk  of :  —  I  do  not  use  the 
word.  What  is  the  word  ?  I  say  ( my  passion/ 
'  my  capacity  for  love,'  '  my  wifehood  and  mother- 
hood,' '  my  truth  and  faithfulness/  '  my  human 
nature/  —  that  most  of  all ;  yes  !  —  that  —  that !  — 
I  tell  you,  Norman,  the  nature  on  which  you  retreat 
is  good  enough  for  me." 

"  I  never  expected  to  hear  you  say  so,  Con- 
stantia,"  said  Norman,  reddening  and  frowning ;  "  I 
believed  you  approached  these  things  from  a  higher 
plane." 

"If  I  have  any  purity  the  two  feet  of  it  are 
295 


Life  the  Accuser. 

planted  on  this  earth.  I  know  no  other  plane.  The 
worship  you  give  me  I  cannot  take  because  it  is 
founded  upon  a  lie  —  or  at  least  an  error." 

A  blaze  of  indignation  shot  into  Dayntree's  eyes. 
He  believed  that  she  spoke  in  mere  heat,  but  he  felt 
that  his  rising  anger  against  her  attitude  was  justified 
by  the  shock  she  gave  him. 

"  As  my  wife,  Constantia,  I  must  beg  you  not  to 
let  fall  words  which  dishonour  yourself  as  well  as  me. 
It  is  utterly  incomprehensible  that  you  should  play 
with  such  a  topic  for  a  moment." 

"You  think  lam  in  play?  No.  It  is  necessary 
that  you  should  learn  where  I  stand.  Rough  facts 
have  brought  me  to  see  where  you  stand.  I  am 
startled  enough.  I  never  dreamed  of  doubting  you. 
Did  my  unquestioning  trust  shape  no  obligation  on 
your  side  ?  You  were  unfaithful  to  me  in  our  early 
married  days,  and  now  I  find  you  the  seducer  of 
Rosalie  Trelyon." 

"  Constantia,"  said  Norman,  in  an  ignoble  haste 
which  time  back  in  another  man  he  would  have  used 
his  fist  to  punish  —  "  Constantia !  I  hate  to  say 
it  —  but  I  may  as  well  say  in  your  ear  alone  — 
particularly  when  you  have  every  right  to  know  — 
that  I  am  not  the  seducer  of  Rosalie  Trelyon. 
Really,  if  it  comes  to  that,  the  positions  are 
reversed.'7 

"  Probably.  By  your  physical  qualities  you  ac- 
quire a  tremendous  power  over  women  in  their 
sexual  nature." 

296 


Cold  Winter. 

Norman  reeled  suddenly,  and  walking  to  a  sofa 
threw  himself  upon  it  and  buried  his  face  in  the 
pillow.  He  was  more  bitterly  hurt  than  he  could 
have  conceived  possible.  His  own  remark  was  a 
sorry  shift  for  which  he  instantly  despised  himself; 
it  was  one  of  those  accidental  straws  on  the  current 
which  point  whither  the  nature  is  trending.  But 
the  main  to  him  was  that  she  accepted  the  truth 
without  outcry,  with  a  tranquillity  that  introduced 
a  shocking  dissonance  into  his  starlike  conception 
of  her  character. 

"But,"  she  went  on  presently,  "I  am  sorry 
you  should  have  put  this  about  Rosalie  as  you 
did." 

After  a  long  silence  he  raised  his  face  and  sat  up ; 
his  suffering  in  that  region  of  fastidious  fancy,  which, 
as  an  atmosphere  of  pure  art,  pervaded  his  complex 
mind,  had  been  very  keen. 

"  Yes,  Constantia,"  he  remarked  humbly,  "  I  was 
a  hound  to  say  what  I  did  about  Miss  Trelyon.  But 
you  have  your  revenge.  In  desecrating  your  own 
image  in  my  mind  by  words  which  anger  —  for  I 
will  never  believe  otherwise  —  has  prompted,  you 
have  hurt  and  wounded  me  sufficiently." 

"  Norman,  there  is  no  anger.  My  heart  is  too 
stricken,  too  broken  for  that.  But  listen.  You  say 
that  you  are  miserable  before  me  because  of  my 
purity.  Be  miserable  not  for  that,  but  because  in 
your  dishonour  you  stand  before  one  of  like  nature 
with  yourself,  one  who  comprehends  both  the 
297 


Life  the  Accuser. 

temptation  and  the  fall,  one  who  separates  herself 
from  none." 

"  Good  God,  Constantia  !  "  —  a  flame  of  wrath 
was  in  his  voice  —  "I  set  you  on  a  pedestal." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  yes  !  The  separation  in  our  marriage 
did  not  begin  to-day." 

"  I  repeat/'  cried  Norman,  harshly,  "  this  lapse  of 
mine  has  nothing  to  do  with  our  marriage.  And 
I  will  not  stand  by  while  you " 

He  broke  off  in  agitation.  He  took  a  turn 
through  the  room. 

"  I  am  very  angry,  Constantia  ! " 

"  Yet  you  must  know  it.  My  nature,  too,  has 
its  infirmer  moods  when  my  blamelessness  might 
be  found  vulnerable. " 

"  It  is  inhuman  of  you  to  punish  me  this  way," 
said  he,  re-seating  himself. 

"  A  man,"  said  she,  "  is  judged  by  his  peers. 
The  separation  in  our  marriage  began  when  you 
divided  up  my  nature  in  your  thought  of  me,  and 
set  some  of  it  apart  from  your  own.  Out  of  this 
division  you  shaped  that  which  has  torn  the  close 
strong  threads  of  our  union." 

Norman  rose  again  to  his  feet.  He  was  agitated 
in  ways  beyond  his  expectation,  he  trod  again 
through  the  room  —  up  and  down  —  rapidly. 

"  Of  course  I  set  you  apart  !  Of  course  I 
thought  you  blameless  ! "  he  cried. 

"Well!  I  happen  to  be  so,77  she  returned,  with- 
out any  note  of  elation  in  her  voice ;  "  but  I  own 
298 


Cold  Winter. 

and  have  never  owned  any  but  the  common  nature 
—  the  nature  common  to  you,  to  Rosalie.  I  am 
alive,  and  I  am  human.  It  is  the  condition  of  all 
live  things  that  error  is  possible  to  them.  I  could 
err.  But  you  have  thought  me  pitiless,  and  have 
mistaken  my  faithfulness  for  mere  incapacity.  You 
did  me  injustice  there.  My  virtue  is  not  a  nega- 
tion, it  is  positive.  Because  you  thought  other- 
wise it  has  become  the  occasion  of  your  ruin.  In 
your  vigour  and  manliness  you  felt  yourself  excused 
from  the  practice  of  that  which  hardly  belonged  to 
flesh  and  blood.  And  thus  it  has  happened  that 
your  uttermost  conception  of  obligation  towards 
the  wife  you  say  you  '  worship '  has  been  — 
deception" 

Her  voice  ceased,  falling  away  to  a  heart-broken 
sigh.  It  was  getting  very  dark,  but  he  knew  by 
the  rustle  of  her  garments  that  she  was  moving 
through  the  room.  The  pulses  in  his  body  beat 
thin  and  small,  and  his  throat  was  dry.  He  was 
very  angry,  and  he  was  deeply  horrified.  The 
idea  of  immaculate  passivity  in  women  had  accom- 
panied all  his  life  as  a  starlike  melody  floating 
above  it.  That  was  silenced;  but  amidst  many 
burning  thoughts,  the  angriest  and  most  excruciat- 
ing lay  in  the  absence  of  any  note  of  superiority 
from  his  wife  towards  Rosalie,  any  outbreak  of 
scorn  and  contempt  there.  He  would  have  desired 
to  soothe  such  an  ebullition  with  praises  at  her 
"difference,"  and  while  kissing  on  bended  knee 
299 


Life  the  Accuser. 

the  white  hand  of  her  spotlessness,  to  have  hidden 
an  experienced  and  rosy  thought  over  the  more 
earthly  texture  of  the  other  creature.  But  Con- 
stantia  had  acknowledged  no  altitude  j  on  the  con- 
trary, she  had  discovered  herself  as  moving  all 
abroad  upon  the  wide  level  of  things. 

When  the  door  closed  and  he  was  alone,  his 
heart  took  a  fuller  beat.  There  was  a  trifle  of 
hardness  in  the  set  of  his  mouth.  Any  circum- 
stance will  lend  a  man  all  excuse  for  pursuing  a 
course  upon  which  he  is  determined.  He  rose 
up,  giving  his  head  and  shoulders  a  shake ;  then 
he  found  that  his  hand  was  still  clasping  the  small 
key  of  the  cabinet,  and  that  reminded  him  of  the 
solicitor's  letter.  Once  more  the  every-day  world 
was  creeping  about  him ;  he  wanted  that  letter 
badly ;  but  it  was  dark  enough  to  make  him  grope, 
and  he  had  to  find  and  strike  a  match  and  light  a 
candle.  When  he  had  secured  the  latter,  he  went 
towards  the  hearth,  and  placing  the  match-box  in 
the  glow  that  still  remained  in  the  fireplace,  laid  the 
bundle  of  Rosalie's  letters  upon  it,  and  left  the 
whole  to  blaze  together.  It  was  the  only  place  for 
a  man  of  his  careless  habit. 


300 


Cold  Winter. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  chill  winter  days  ran  languidly  at  The  Elms. 
"  Glynn  "  began  to  hope  that  her  moulding  had 
begun  to  take  effect,  and  that  she  should  add  to 
her  testimonials ;  on  three  occasions  Rosalie  had 
lately  accepted  her  interference  in  silence.  Then 
she  sat  more  with  her  mother  in  the  drawing-room 
amongst  the  gods,  often  crouched  over  the  fire  with 
her  chin  in  her  hand  watching  the  flame.  An  oc- 
casional irony  from  her  mother  deftly  slipped  from 
her  honeyed  tongue,  and  accompanied  by  a  gleam 
from  her  eyes,  would  rouse  the  girl  to  fierceness : 
but  it  died  out  immediately,  it  was  nothing  but  the 
momentary  flare  of  a  smouldering  emotion  heavily 
overweighted  by  dark  thoughts. 

Psychologically  Rosalie  had  reached  a  moment 
in  her  life  when  she  was  compelled  to  the  practice 
of  self-examination ;  hitherto  the  self-directing  im- 
pulses had  sufficed ;  but  supposing  impulse  landed 
one  ever  so  little  where  one's  choice  had  not  con- 
sented? Her  thoughts  went  patter,  patter.  The 
element  of  will  in  all  she  did,  of  daring  but  balanced 
will,  was  necessary  to  her  self-respect,  and  all  her 
301 


Life  the  Accuser. 

thoughts  busied  themselves  in  building  up  a  hand- 
some base  on  which  to  erect  the  done  deed  in  the 
after-sanction  of  her  finest  and  heroic  choice.  And 
when  the  new  morning  waked  after  a  night  of  sleep 
the  glittering  sophism  had  vanished,  the  act  lay 
bare,  and  the  weary  building  was  still  to  be  begun. 
Once  meeting  her  mother's  eye  —  a  pin-point  of 
light  in  the  handsome  melting  irises  —  she  stifled  a 
shriek  upon  her  lips ;  the  eye  seemed  to  penetrate 
her  mind,  and  following  its  ray  she  fancied  she 
encountered  there  Eliza's  figure  of  the  veiled  in- 
exorable one  who  sits  within  "  judging  —  judging 
as  none  else  can  judge."  It  ran  through  her  brain 
as  in  written  fiery  letters  that  she  had  acted  with- 
out deliberation  and  without  splendour.  To  be 
splendid  was  her  need. 

But  if,  for  example,  he  were  splendid !  If  he 
were  a  gigantic  figure  of  the  century  with  whom  it 
would  be  historic  to  be  associated,  why  did  he  not 
act?  She  hunted  the  papers  day  by  day,  waiting 
for  the  deed  which  should  shine  out  of  the  printed 
page  and  flood  her  gloomy  heart  with  satisfying 
sunshine.  He  had  been  pointed  out  as  future 
Minister  for  the  Colonies,  and  a  glory  of  tropical 
empires  had  streamed  in  her  fancy  through  his 
years.  Her  heart  had  jumped  to  the  African 
scheme  with  exulting  hope  —  and  after  all  it  dan- 
gled from  the  fingers  of  the  slim  brown  young  man 
and  not  from  his.  As  a  side  thought  she  wished 
that  Eliza  would  appear  to  tell  her  something  fur- 
302 


Cold  Winter. 

ther  about  Evan  Dayntree,  but  Eliza  had  left  off 
c.oming.  This  patching  of  shreds  together,  of  build- 
ing with  sand,  of  going  over  and  over  the  done 
thing  and  feeling  the  bubbling  up  of  a  wish  that  it 
had  not  been  done  or  at  least  not  so  done,  was  be- 
ginning to  wear  her  life  down  into  listlessness.  She 
could  not  even  take  a  stand  or  find  a  reason  for 
taking  a  stand  against  herself.  The  meetings  con- 
tinued, and  the  brief  intoxication  of  them  effaced 
anything  like  a  consistent  thought  and  consistent 
motive.  She  tumbled  between  listlessness  and  ex- 
citement and  the  after  search  for  a  splendid  setting 
for  her  deeds.  But  the  deed  is  its  own  splendour. 
One  evening,  tired  beyond  anything  she  could 
have  dreamed,  and  with  the  sense  of  failure  left  by 
a  useless  mental  exertion,  she  leaned  back  in  her 
chair  in  the  drawing-room,  dropped  the  paper  which 
for  her  held  "  no  news,"  and  closed  her  eyes ;  the 
roundness  of  her  face  and  the  soft  bloom  of  her 
skin  seemed  to  shrink  under  the  touch  of  an  anxiety 
scarcely  comprehended  but  hard  to  bear.  She  had 
been  riding  all  the  morning  to  fight  off  the  convic- 
tion that  her  "  choice  "  had  been  no  choice,  but 
came  under  the  category  of  impulse  of  a  primal  and 
formidable  kind.  And  for  the  moment  she  could 
fight  no  longer ;  the  conviction  pinned  her,  and  a 
question  whether  she  even  loved  the  man  hit  her 
a  sudden  blow.  Were  not  the  interviews  losing 
piquancy,  zest,  and  grace?  She  raised  her  lids  to 
the  inquiry,  and  found  herself  the  object  of  the 
3°3 


Life  the  Accuser. 

fixed  attention  of  her  mother.  Rosalie  started  from 
her  seat  with  an  exclamation. 

"  Mother !     You  —  you  frighten  me  !  " 

Mrs.  Trelyon  did  not  remove  her  gaze. 

"  It  is  I  who  am  frightened"  said  she,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  You  frightened  ?    Why  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  believed  in  the  inevitable  before." 

Rosalie  stared  with  parted  lips.  What  was  the 
inevitable?  Her  mother  was  looking  down  now, 
and  her  face  was  white  and  pinched  and  fear- 
hunted.  It  was  still  Rosalie's  great  need  to  believe 
in  her  mother;  it  was  her  need  to  believe  in  her 
more  even  than  she  believed  in  the  heroic  figure  of 
her  imaginary  father.  But  a  doubt  worse  than  that 
about  herself  turned  her  cold.  She  could  not  bear 
the  atmosphere  of  the  drawing-room  a  moment 
longer,  and  rose  and  left  it.  Mrs.  Trelyon  watched 
her  out  of  the  room  with  the  same  intent  stare,  and 
then  caught  her  hands  over  her  face  and  bowed 
herself  in  her  seat. 

Rosalie  put  on  her  things  and  went  out  for  a 
walk ;  she  wished  inexpressibly  for  Eliza ;  she  had 
that  dumb  and  rarely  granted  desire  common  to 
human  nature  in  distress  —  an  ear  to  pour  her  con- 
fidence into  ;  and  there  was  nothing  offered  but  the 
bounded  silence  of  isolated  suffering.  She  took 
the  way  towards  the  common,  and  walked  quickly 
trying  to  drive  out  feeling  by  swift  movement.  She 
intended  to  reach  the  stretch  of  the  road  over  the 
304 


Cold  Winter. 

common  so  that  she  might  walk  more  quickly,  in 
more  blind  hurry,  the  wind  in  her  face.  But  a 
winding  lane  lay  before  her  —  a  lane  crossed  by 
a  brook  with  a  stone  bridge  over  it,  and  turning  a 
corner  she  saw  approaching,  the  other  side  of  the 
bridge,  Evan  Dayntree.  The  colour  streamed  into 
her  face ;  she  had  not  seen  him  since  the  evening 
of  the  Cinderella  dance ;  as  a  sub-disturbance  of 
memory  came  the  thought  of  the  night-meeting 
with  Constantia.  Where  all  threatened,  the  meet- 
ing to  Rosalie  was  ominous. 

On  Evan's  side,  equally  unexpected,  it  raised  to 
his  fancy  on  the  path  before  him  the  one  desired 
and  unattainable  ideal.  Some  enchanted  accident 
had  brought  him  there  and  placed  his  opportunity 
before  him ;  lover-like  and  man-like  he  leapt  to  it. 
It  was  three  months  since  he  had  seen  her,  and 
the  time  between  had  been  filled  with  work  and 
thought ;  he  came  on  now  quickly,  his  tread  eager, 
his  features  determined,  —  "  Africa"  (as  she  thought) 
"  in  his  eyes."  Rosalie  stood  still.  On  the  far  hori- 
zons of  her  mind  rose  a  little  cloud  faint,  remote,  and 
she  did  not  dream  of  what  a  storm  it  was  the  pre- 
cursor ;  but  even  at  the  moment  there  ran  over  her 
brain  a  swift  comparison  between  him  and  Norman. 
She  moved  back  unconsciously  under  his  eyes,  and 
stood  against  the  bridge  wall.  At  that  moment,  in 
his  determination,  his  youth,  his  strong  gravity 
overarched  by  the  irradiation  of  passionate  tender- 
ness, he  had  the  best  bearing  of  a  man. 
20  305 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Rosalie  Trelyon,"  said  he,  quite  simply  and 
sharply,  "you  must  listen  to  me  to-day,  for  there 
are  things  I  have  to  say  to  you." 

"  I  thought  —  you  had  gone." 

He  remarked  that  her  haughty  caprice  had  van- 
ished;  she  looked  at  him  with  a  dulness  that  sur- 
prised him.  But  his  heart  was  too  full  to  dwell  on 
the  change.  For  him  she  was  "Rosalie"  —  it 
summed  up  all.  Divergences  and  moods  mattered 
little. 

"  I  went  away  and  I  have  come  back.  I  went 
away  on  your  account  and  I  have  come  back  on 
your  account.  I  am  your  lover,  and  I  believe  you 
know  it.  On  the  night  of  the  ball  you  seemed  to 
disdain  me.  That  cut  me  to  the  heart  and  drove 
me  away.  But  I  am  not  a  man  to  be  disdained. 
In  my  heart  of  hearts  I  think  of  you  as  my  wife.  I 
must  speak  to  you  about  it.  You  must  think  if  you 
can  be  so.  I  think  of  you  as  my  wife  because 
when  I  first  saw  you  I  became  filled  with  a  great 
and  new  emotion ;  and  I  became  inspired  to  aim  at 
greater  things  than  I  had  aimed  at  before.  Your 
hand  lifted  something  in  me,  and  I  saw  what  manner 
of  man  it  was  possible  for  me  to  become.  Then 
I  knew  you  must  be  my  wife.  That  is  what  I  read 
as  the  meaning.  I  am  not  to  go  back  on  what  you 
showed  me.  I  see  the  relation  in  which  you  stand 
to  me ;  and  I  love  you  with  great  passion." 

Rosalie  listened  with  downcast  eyes.  She  had 
had  a  score  of  offers,  but  no  man  had  begun  just 
306 


Cold  Winter. 

like  this  one.  He  was  offering  and  asking  more 
than  the  ordinary  ;  again  and  again  he  "  had  Africa 
in  his  eyes."  She  was  too  much  accustomed  to 
love-making  to  be  startled  at  the  mere  fact  of  hear- 
ing his  declaration,  and  yet  her  heart  felt  startled 
now.  She  was  startled  by  his  words  —  not  by  his 
love.  She  was  more  occupied  with  them  than 
with  him.  He  seemed  to  speak  to  something  so 
intimately  understood  by  her,  to  be  striking  on 
chords  that  vibrated  with  too  much  import  to  her- 
self, for  her  to  be  either  fair  or  merciful  to  him  in 
the  light  of  lover.  That  seemed  to  be  lost  in  the 
more  pressing  question  ;  she  saw  him  in  his  new 
relationship  to  the  secret  turmoil  of  anxious  self- 
questioning  within.  She  looked  up  at  him,  and 
once  more  Evan  wondered  at  the  dull  question  in 
her  eyes ;  he  could  not,  however,  flatter  himself 
that  he  traced  a  sign  of  yielding  or  softening 
towards  himself. 

"  What  shall  you  do  with  your  great  idea,  sup- 
posing I  find  myself  unable  to  entertain  your 
proposal  to  me?" 

Evan,  who  had  taken  her  hand,  dropped  it,  half 
seated  himself  on  the  stonework  by  her  side,  with 
his  arms  folded  and  his  lids  downcast. 

"I  believe  I  had  rather  you  had  not  asked  me 
that  question,"  said  he,  presently  ;  "  I  am  conscious 
of  being  an  awkward  and  ignorant  wooer.  I  wish 
for  my  own  sake  I  were  more  polished.  I  don't 
know  how  to  present  myself  in  any  unusual  light  — - 
307 


Life  the  Accuser. 

to  throw  any  glamour  over  myself  at  all ;  and  yet  to 
be  a  lover  is  once  in  a  lifetime.  Rosalie  !  be  pa- 
tient with  a  rough  kind  of  fellow  whose  only  skill  is 
to  be  honest.  I  've  lived  a  man's  life  and  seen 
little  of  women.  1  Ve  a  notion  they  should  be 
approached  differently,  and  I  know  no  other  way 
than  the  direct  way.  Really  and  truly,  I  have 
placed  you  too  high  in  my  regard,  you  are  too 
precious  for  me  to  come  before  you  with  anything 
but  honest  truth  in  my  mouth,  —  in  any  mood  less 
than  the  mood  in  which  I  should  stand  before 
a  revered  man.  Love  me  and  leave  me  not, 
Rosalie,  if  you  can !  But  if  you  can't  —  well ! 
I  shall  have  to  go  on  and  do  it  alone." 

"Do  what?" 

"  The  things  that  came  into  my  mind  after  I  saw 
you,  the  things  you  brought  there.  I  can't  go 
back  on  them." 

"  They  are  more  to  you  than  I  am,"  said  she, 
musingly. 

"  By  heaven,  they  're  not ! "  cried  he,  sharply. 
"  But  how  could  I  stand  up  before  the  thought 
of  you  if  I  had  gone  back  on  your  orders  ?  How 
could  I  stand  up  before  myself?  " 

"  My  orders  ?     I  never  said  a  word." 

"  No  —  but  you  made  me  love  you.  Good  God  ! 
The  very  sight  of  the  curling  of  your  hair  about 
your  neck  makes  me  tremble." 

He  pushed  at  the  dust  with  his  foot,  grinding  his 
heel  into  it. 

308 


Cold  Winter. 

"I  suppose  I'm  spoiling  my  own  chances.  I 
can't  express  myself;  I  do  not  place  anything 
before  you.  But  these  things  are  part  of  you  and 
part  of  myself.  If  I  took  all  the  honour  and  force 
out  of  my  life,  or  pretended  that  it  could  go, 
where  would  be  the  use  of  asking  you  to  join  it? 
Rosalie  !  Love  me  and  leave  me  not !  But  if 
you  won't,  I  shall  be  true  to  myself  and  true  to 
that  part  of  you  I  still  possess,  and  which  you 
.can't  take  from  me." 

He  stopped  speaking  and  held  her  with  glowing 
eyes.  His  arms  ached  to  draw  within  them  that 
exquisite  morsel  of  humanity  who  to  him  was  ex- 
quisite, wonderful,  perfect,  all  through.  She  looked 
simply  pale  and  anxious,  and  her  lips  were  parted 
with  the  breath  coming  and  going  quickly.  He 
raised  his  hand  to  his  eyes  and  covered  them  a 
moment,  for  he  found  no  response  to  his  love,  and 
he  was  sure  that  his  senses  ached  in  vain.  The 
intimacy  of  speech  was  making  it  worse.  And  yet 
he  loved  his  pain  because  it  was  mingled  with  her ; 
it  brought  him  nearer  to  her  than  anything  else 
could ;  he  would  not  have  parted  with  it  for  the 
world. 

"Well!"  he  said  behind  his  hand,  "I  love 
you.  You  can't  take  that  away,  either.  I  love  you. 
You  make  nothing  of  me.  But  I  love  you.  And, 
by  God,  you  're  mine  !  " 

"  I  don't  love  you  ;  and  if  I  were  to  say  I  did, 
you  would  go  away  to  Africa." 
3°9 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  You  mean  I  'd  be  after  those  schemes  of  mine 
that  you  set  me  on?  Yes,  I  should.  I  don't 
blame  you  for  looking  at  it  your  way.  I  've  often 
said  to  myself  that  I  don't  know  why  ever  women 
marry  fellows  at  all.  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know 
why  you  should  love  me.  Except  that  women 
do  —  and  I  Ve  given  you  the  best  of  myself.  I  've 
never  been  in  love  before.  It 's  a  big  thing.  I 
have  n't  got  words.  It 's  the  whole  of  me." 

Rosalie  flinched.  She  bit  her  lips  and  became 
whiter. 

"  What  would  be  the  good  of  my  presenting 
myself  to  you  anything  but  what  I  am?  I  want 
you  to  marry  me — not  the  fiction  of  me,"  he 
went  on.  "I'm  hoping  you  understand  me.  I 
don't  quite  know  what  girls  want ;  I  see  they  do 
marry.  I  'm  telling  you  what  I  can  give  —  the 
whole  passion  of  me.  I  'm  a  big,  strong  sort  of 
fellow ;  I  can  fight  men  ;  and  you  've  taught  me  I 
can  love  a  woman.  Yes  !  I  can  love.  I  'm  on  fire 
from  my  head  to  my  heels.  I  want  you  to  give  me 
something  back  for  it.  For  it 's  no  slight  thing  —  I 
know  myself.  And  if  you  do,  if  you  '11  only  come 
and  trust  yourself  to  me  —  I  want  to  stand  up 
against  the  world  and  life  for  you.  If  there 's 
harm  on  the  way,  it 's  not  your  hair  that  shall 
be  grizzled  first,  it  '11  be  mine.  I  ?m  your  lover 
to  the  end." 

"  Evan  Dayntree  !  " 

He  looked  at  her.  The  film  and  fire  of  the  lover's 
310 


Cold  Winter. 

vision  died  out  of  his  eyes.  He  found  himself 
compelled  to  a  merely  objective  attention. 

"  I  'm  feeling  a  little " 

He  caught  her  on  his  arm.  He  was  all  surprise 
and  ruth.  The  face  shrinking  from  his  gaze  was 
shutting  up  like  a  fading  flower,  and  the  figure 
seemed  to  collapse.  He  threw  his  knee  out  and 
got  both  arms  about  her  and  drew  her  close  up  to 
his  support;  but  though  the  inconceivable  had 
happened  and  she  lay  within  his  arms,  his  heart 
went  still  and  cold.  He  was  sure  she  remained 
conscious,  and  yet  she  seemed  as  a  corpse. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  whispered  in  her  ear.  "  I  'm 
afraid  I  Ve  kept  you  standing.  Can  I  help  ?  " 

The  eyes  opened  and  looked  up  at  him  ;  there 
was  a  dumb  animal  pleading  in  them.  His  mind 
kept  stirring  up  and  down  with  the  strangest  sur- 
mises that  never  came  to  anything  real  but  appeared 
as  wraiths  and  went  out  again. 

"  I  got  a  cruel  thought,"  said  she ;  and  she  ral- 
lied and  freed  herself  from  his  arms  and  stood 
upright  again. 

"  How  so?  Lean  on  my  arm  still,"  S£id  he, 
feeling  as  though  a  golden  moment  edged  by  terror 
had  slipped  down  the  day. 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  held  them  out  before 
her,  her  eyes  mournfully  fixed  upon  the  ground. 

"  I  need  a  friend,"  she  murmured. 

"  Then  I  am  he  !  " 

"You  !  "  She  did  not  lift  her  eyes. 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Use  me  that  way,  and  put  aside  the  rest." 

"  I  don't  see  properly,"  muttered  she  ;  "  that  was 
something  frightful." 

"  I  am  your  true  friend,"  said  he ;  "  take  me  in 
your  service.  I  don't  understand  what  your  need 
is.  But  I  am  your  friend." 

"  Thank  you,  Evan  Dayntree "  Her  mood 

was  touched  with  a  humility  that  astounded  him ; 
"  do  you  happen  to  know  a  little  white  soul  of  a 
girl  —  a  snow-heart  over  a  volcano  —  named  Eliza  ?  " 

His  eyes  lightened  with  surprise. 

li  Just  such  an  one,"  said  he. 

"  When  next  you  see  her  —  and  go  now  —  say 
that  Rosalie  has  great  need  of  her." 

She  bent  her  head  in  grave  farewell,  and  turned 
to  walk  feebly  up  the  road.  He  dared  not  follow  — 
so  final  had  been  her  look  and  manner.  He  stood 
watching  until  the  last  glimpse  of  her  was  lost ; 
and  then  he  stared  from  the  earth  to  the  heavens 
and  from  the  heavens  to  the  earth  in  amaze. 
After  which  his  mind  fastened  on  the  thought 
of  Eliza,  and  therewith  his  brow  knit  in  new 
perplexity. 

Life  proceeds  through  complications,  each  fresh 
step  setting  us  face  to  face  with  a  fresh  riddle.  We 
form  relationships  of  the  free  will,  and  by  and  by 
these  are  perturbed  by  newer  and  more  attractive 
ties.  It  is  the  changing  face  of  character  to  which 
the  newer  choice  is  necessary,  but  the  older  and 
prior  choice  has  been  consecrated  by  association 
312 


Cold  Winter. 

and  kindly  obligation,  and  we  find  ourselves  undis- 
charged from  the  claim.  The  manner  in  which  we 
adjust  our  conduct  between  the  two  is  the  measure 
of  our  social  justice  and  true  perception. 

On  the  surface  of  his  mind  Evan  felt  as  though 
the  last  scene  between  himself  and  Eliza  precluded 
him  from  seeking  her  again.  But  his  direct  nature 
quickly  escaped  from  the  conventional  prompting, 
and  the  false  intuition  was  wiped  out  instantaneously 
by  his  truer  perception.  Love  is  always  of  the 
nature  of  a  gift,  and  the  wounding  thing  is  when  it 
is  altogether  and  peremptorily  rejected.  He  him- 
self had  not  now  to  stand  under  the  smart  of  such 
cruelty  and  injustice  ;  Rosalie  had  thanked  him  and 
had  put  him  to  her  service.  He  was  glad,  though 
it  was  so  infinitely  less  than  he  had  hoped.  And 
why  should  he  conceive  of  a  woman's  feeling  as 
other  or  less  than  his  own  ?  Why  were  the  grand 
and  mournful  simplicities  of  the  loves  of  men  and 
women  to  be  marred  by  duplicities  and  the  injustice 
of  assumed  difference  ? 

Evan's  feet  were  already  moving  in  the  direction 
of  the  Court  as  he  argued  ;  he  ceased  soon  to  need 
to  argue.  He  went  to  his  friend  in  his  need,  cer- 
tain that  the  heart  that  loved  him  could  only  rejoice 
at  his  use  of  the  gift.  But  Eliza  was  not  to  be 
found  at  the  Court ;  usually  she  spent  the  afternoon 
in  the  open  air,  and  presumably  she  was  now  out 
walking.  It  was  evident  he  must  seek  her  as  ever 
amidst  trees  and  open-air  breezes  and  that  large 


Life  the  Accuser. 

loveliness  of  nature  in  which  the  girl's  isolated  spirit 
seemed  best  to  find  its  home. 

But  the  pine-wood  was  a  great  place,  and  now  it 
was  dumb  and  dark  with  winter  —  voiceless  of  birds 
and  empty  of  sunshine.  He  walked  about  the 
paths,  finding  the  trunks  of  the  trees  stern  and 
devoid  of  warm  light ;  a  colourless  gloom  was  every- 
where, and  the  scintillations  of  sunlight  were  erased 
as  by  a  chill  finger.  In  his  heart  he  carried  a  reflec- 
tion of  this  ill-omened  mood  of  nature.  She  had 
hung  no  crystals  upon  the  branches,  and  spread  no 
white  carpet  underfoot ;  the  very  heavens  had  their 
grey  robes  on,  and  the  fir  foliage  was  not  blue  but 
black.  His  foot  treading  beneath  it,  the  dead 
bracken  shrank  from  the  decaying  ooze  of  the  roots ; 
the  slow  drip  and  trickle  of  moisture  from  above  on 
the  fallen  leaves  monotonously  muttered  of  the 
winter's  loss.  He  set  his  hands  to  his  mouth,  and 
in  a  kind  of  desperation  gave  a  loud  cooey.  From 
afar,  after  one  or  two  trials,  came  a  little  broken 
searching  cry  which  excruciated  his  tender  heart  — 
so  did  it  thrill  with  doubtful  joy.  He  knew  not 
into  what  place  he  had  come  in  life ;  he  felt  pain 
and  disaster  about  him.  He  stood  still  listening, 
and  had  half  a  mind  to  flee,  so  uncertain  of  himself 
did  he  feel.  Then  he  heard  a  running  step,  and 
presently  the  wet  branches  of  the  oak  underwood 
were  thrust  aside  and  Eliza  appeared,  her  face 
triste  with  the  pale  hues  of  the  day,  but  a  dim  star- 
light expectation  doubtful  of  itself  in  her  eyes. 
3*4 


Cold  Winter. 

"Oh,  you  white  moth!"  said  Evan;  "but  I 
bring  no  good  news." 

"  A  friend  called  his  friend,"  said  the  girl,  ear- 
nestly, "and  I  was  glad." 

"  Eliza  !  in  this  magic  lantern-slide  of  a  world 
the  light  has  gone  out.  I  dream  every  night  that 
the  festivities  are  over,  and  that  some  one  is  going 
round  the  room  putting  out  the  farthing  dips  one 
after  another.  Why  do  you  live  in  the  wood  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  like  it?  Then  let  us  go  into  the 
open." 

"  You  are,  I  fear,  fitted  for  nothing  but  to  be  the 
prey  of  the  undeserving." 

"  One  dies  but  once  —  and  death  has  been  known 
to  be  welcome,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  whimsical 
smile. 

Her  eyes  had  hungrily  fed  upon  his  face  and 
fallen  again. 

"  Hate  me  for  a  miserable  fellow." 

She  said  nothing.     She  looked  at  his  hand. 

"  I  am  discontented  with  myself.  An  hour  ago 
I  stood  up  to  a  woman.  That  was  because  I  stood 
on  my  right.  Here  I  am  abashed  ;  because  I  must 
be  wrong." 

"Are  you  so  wrong?  Very  well,  then,  you  are 
wrong.  Let  it  be  so ;  and  so  have  done  with  it. 
But  what  makes  the  day  so  out  of  tune?" 

"  I  have  made  Rosalie  Trelyon  an  offer.  That 
is  —  I  meant  to  do  so.  But  did  I?  There  is,  I 
find,  nothing  in  my  memory  but  a  line  of  red-hot 
3r5 


Life  the  Accuser. 

light.  Perhaps  I  did  not  make  her  an  offer.  At 
any  rate,  I  got  no  reply.'7 

Eliza  stood  before  him  and  said  nothing.  The 
look  of  her  face,  on  her  slender  neck,  reminded 
him  now  of  a  white  cyclamen. 

"I'm  a  little  at  odds  with  the  world,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  It  presents  no  clear  face  to  me.  I  Ve 
taken  my  leap  in  the  dark,  and  I  find  myself  no- 
where. But,  Lord  save  us  !  How  can  you  bear 
yourself  in  the  chill  and  the  gloom  of  the  wood  ? 
The  whole  place  droops  like  an  image  of  sin." 

"  Come  out  into  the  open,"  said  Eliza. 

She  led  the  way.  He  saw  her  going  before  him  — 
a  red-gold  knot  of  hair  under  her  hat,  her  indifferent 
and  yet  picturesque  figure  clad  in  mourning,  and 
the  heels  of  her  boots  crushing  into  the  dead  leaves. 
He  called  over  her  shoulder,  — 

"  Eliza  !     Miss  Trelyon  sent  a  message." 

The  ear  of  which  he  could  see  most  turned  pink. 

"She  asked  if  I  knew  such  an  one  as  a  girl 
named  Eliza.  She  said,  '  Tell  her  that  Rosalie  has 
great  need  of  her.'  " 

She  walked  on  —  the  ear  still  pink. 

"  Why  have  you  come  back  ?  "  asked  she.  "  You 
returned  to  your  wheels  and  your  work." 

He  was  astonished  to  hear  her  voice  was  stern. 

"  The  wheels  and  the  work  drowned  nothing  of 
my  care,  and  I  came  back  to  look  it  in  the  face 
again." 

He  thought  he  heard  a  sigh.     He  could  not  see 


Cold  Winter. 

if  there  were  tears  or  not.  The  world  seemed  full 
of  mystery  to  him ;  he  had  the  strangest  groping 
uneasiness.  The  women  held  the  clue.  He  looked 
at  the  one  who  was  leading  him  curiously  and 
reverently. 

"Shall  you  see  her  again?"  asked  she,  presently. 

He  came  up  to  her  side. 

"  I  suppose  that  I  shall  see  her  again  and  again 
and  again.  But  perhaps  not  immediately.  The 
world  has  turned  into  pain  and  wonder.  I  Ve  got 
to  worry  through  and  learn  things  afresh.  I  must 
see  to  the  heart  of  the  matter.  A  fellow  does  not 
give  up  this  sort  of  thing." 

"No." 

He  wiped  a  drop  of  dew  from  his  brow. 
'    "  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  all  wrong,  Eliza.     I  'm  afraid 
I  'm  selfish  to  come  and  talk  this  way  to  you.     I 
ought  not  to  come." 

Her  heart  gave  a  throb  of  fear.  She  dreaded  a 
fall  of  absolute  night. 

"  Your  own  instinct  does  not  tell  you  that.  It  is 
a  convention.  Conventions  are  cruel  things  to 
women.  They  bind  them  up  ;  they  stop  all  that  is 
good  and  true  and  natural.  And  now  you  are  going 
to  tell  me  we  cannot  be  friends." 

"  Am  I  then  right  to  come  ?  " 

"  You  are  right." 

"  I  trust  it  may  be  so." 

"I   shall  prove   it.     I  would  give  the  world  to 

help.     But " 

3T7 


Life  the  Accuser. 

She  broke  off,  with  an  expressive  gesture  of  her 
hands.  Again  he  seemed  to  touch  the  edge  of 
some  mystery ;  there  was  a  spark  of  light  that  dis- 
solved itself  in  darkness.  He  felt  like  a  helpless 
child,  and  he  wanted  to  seize  the  small  gloved  hand 
and  to  say:  '"'What  is  it?  There  is  fear  in  my 
heart.  Tell  me  why.  You  have  a  wisdom  I  don't 
understand.  Speak  to  me,  Eliza !  "  He  plucked 
at  his  manhood  and  knit  his  brow  and  trod  more 
firmly  and  spoke  otherwise. 

"It  is  possible — she  wants  help,"  said  he,  in 
measured  gentleness. 

Eliza  bent  her  head.  That  acquiescent  gesture 
was  terrible. 

"  I  have  always  thought  of  her  as  so  whole,  so 
blithe.  I  am  talking  to  a  friend?" 

Eliza  searched  rapidly  through  her  mind.  This 
thing  called  love  is  the  most  bracing  to  high  natures 
of  all  the  tonics. 

"Yes  —  to  her  best  friend,"  said  she,  calmly. 

Evan  felt  his  own  heart  suffered. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  I  do  not  understand  it, 
but  a  hint  has  come  to  me  of  possible  trouble.  I 
talk  in  the  dark.  My  tenderness  is  scarcely  allowed. 
But  yours,  Eliza  ?  " 

"  I  am  her  oldest  friend." 

She  spoke  the  merest  prose,  but  it  sounded  like 
a  poem  in  his  ears.  He  thought  her  words  were 
as  a  dewdrop  running  down  the  stalk  of  a  plant  to 
the  parched  root.  The  gate  was  just  ahead  of 

318 


Cold  Winter. 

them.  Desiring  to  do  her  service,  he  ran  forwards 
and  opened  it.  She  stopped. 

"  I  am  not  going  through.  I  stay  in  my  wood," 
said  she. 

A  slight  smile  touched  her  lips  —  a  shade  of  dis- 
appointment his.  Eliza  wished  that  her  sex  was 
changed,  that  her  skirt  and  cape  were  fashioned  as 
a  man's  garments,  and  that  she  could  have  gone  on 
with  him.  If  she  had  been  a  man,  she  thought  the 
perplexity  would  not  have  been  so  great.  As  for 
him,  he  desired  her  presence,  but  had  no  choice  in 
the  matter ;  his  message  was  delivered,  and  he  too 
felt  the  separation  and  reticence  of  sex  between 
them.  He  passed  through  the  gate  and  fastened  it 
behind  him.  She  came  forward  and  laid  her  hand 
on  the  top  bar  and  looked  at  him  for  a  few  moments 
speechlessly.  He  could  not  read  the. emotion  of 
which  her  face  was  full.  He  looked  at  the  small 
curved  mouth,  the  eyes  suddenly  large  and  beauti- 
ful in  their  troubled  hesitation,  the  personality  for 
once  harmonious  in  the  complete  possession  of  a 
single  dominating  thought.  That  this  anxious  emo- 
tion had  to  do  with  himself  he  had  not  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt ;  he  felt  it  to  be  something  great ;  he 
could  not  follow  it,  he  longed  for  speech.  He 
desired,  too,  to  thank  and  comfort  her ;  his  eyes 
melted ;  he  would  have  liked  to  have  taken  her  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her ;  his  impulses  were  all  ot 
the  tenderest  kind  —  short  of  love.  And  they  were 
all  as  clear  to  her  apprehension  as  though  they  had 
been  openly  offered.  319 


Life  the  Accuser. 

«  Eliza "  he  began. 

For  she  still  stood  there  with  her  incomprehen- 
sible gaze  of  unuttered  emotion. 

"  Eliza "  he  repeated,  held  off  from  further 

utterance  by  a  certain  strength  and  gravity  under- 
lying the  wistfulness  of  her  face. 

And  he  moved  a  step  forward,  his  own  look 
deepening.  She  took  one  back,  and  a  faint  sigh 
escaped  her. 

"  Good-bye,  Evan,"  she  said,  and  turned  sharply 
and  walked  away. 

She  went  hurriedly  without  looking  back,  the 
tears  slowly  dropping  over  her  cheeks.  It  scarcely 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  willed  or  decided,  but 
that  the  whole  overwhelming  bias  and  tendency  of 
her  own  nature,  the  persistent  clear  habit  of  her 
mind,  was  laying  a  hand  of  iron  upon  her  lips,  was 
compelling  her  to  a  silence  that  meant  far  more 
than  the  sacrifice  of  herself,  for  it  seemed  to  involve 
perhaps  the  sacrifice  of  him.  Yet  the  instinct  to 
keep  silence  was  whole,  undivided,  absolutely  mas- 
terful. She  wept  against  it  without  a  hint  of  going 
back  in  her  mind.  She  had  not  even  the  certainty 
of  right  and  of  virtue  to  sustain  her,  for  the  clear- 
ness of  self-confidence  was  never  hers.  Only  it 
had  been  absolutely  impossible  to  do  other  than  to 
keep  silence.  A  mighty  sense  of  honour,  an  in- 
describable hint  of  the  tenderness  and  broad- 
heartedness  that  He  at  the  root  of  things  in  spite  of 
our  limitations  and  proprieties,  an  immeasurable 
320 


Cold  Winter. 

sympathy  with  the  human  nature  of  the  woman  who 
was  her  rival,  and  with  the  untrammelled  right  of 
choice  in  the  beloved  man,  directed  her.  Help 
had  been  asked  her,  and  there  was  no  way  of  be- 
stowing it  save  in  the  insignificant  act  of  silence 
and  self-withdrawal. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  walked  out  of  the  chance 
of  the  temptation  to  speak  that  she  paused  and 
permitted  the  tenseness  of  her  resolution  to  break 
in  the  passion  of  regret.  Safe  in  her  loneliness  she 
caught  hold  of  the  trunk  of  a  fir-tree  and  cried 
aloud  after  her  lost  opportunity,  hating  and  despis- 
ing herself,  and  dashing  her  unkissed  cheek  against 
the  rough  bark  of  the  tree. 

"  He  would  have  kissed  me  if  I  had  given  him 
the  least  encouragement.  My  mouth  is  red  in 
vain,  for  I  did  not  lift  it  to  his  face.  Out  of  all  the 
worlds  of  happiness  one  little  kiss  might  have  been 
spared  me,  and  I  did  not  take  it.  I  want  the  kiss 
as  the  starving  want  food  and  drink,  as  unsunned 
lands  want  warmth,  I  want  the  kiss.  It  would 
have  placed  me  amongst  happy  women  ;  and  now, 
for  ever,  I  am  outside.  But  if  he  had  kissed  me 
I  should  have  spoken ;  and  somehow  I  know  that 
speech  from  me  would  be  wrong  for  him.  But  — 
Oh,  my  own  virtue  !  How  I  hate  you  !  " 


321 


Life  the  Accuser. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

MR.  EDWARD  ARMSTRONG'S  mine  shares  had  so 
far  made  a  steady  march  into  the  skyey  regions  of 
profit.  Perusing  the  papers  day  by  day,  he  seemed 
to  discern  an  indefinite  prospect  of  doubling 
his  capital.  Already  since  his  father's  death  the 
^32,000  had  run  to  a  higher  figure,  an  extravagant 
dividend  having  been  followed  by  pressure  to  buy 
on  the  part  of  country  speculators  who  possessed  a 
little  money  to  gamble  with.  The  stock  market  ap- 
peared to  Edward  the  very  root  and  base  of  wealth- 
making,  and  a  broker  a  discreet  and  agreeable 
person  whose  function  in  life  was  to  turn  a  shilling 
into  two-and-sixpence.  Meanwhile,  on  the  strength 
of  the  increased  value  of  his  shares,  he  bought  a 
new  horse,  and  added  a  flashy  dog-cart  and  a 
groom  to  the  establishment  at  home.  He  seemed 
to  be  the  centre  of  a  magic  game ;  the  Stock 
Exchange  was  where  the  game  was  played,  his 
part  was  by  proxy,  but  he  swept  in  the  winnings. 

"  l  Money  flows  to  money,*  old  dad  used  to  say, 
and,  by  Jove,  he  was  right.  But  dad  was  slow. 
He  hadn't  the  necessary  go  in  him.  It.  wants 
322 


Cold  Winter. 

genius ;  dad  had  n't  the  necessary  penetration. 
Dad  missed  his  opportunities.  By  Jove  !  we  'd  all 
have  been  at  the  top  of  the  tree  if  I  'd  had  the 
reins.  Look  how  things  are  going  now !  I  've 
nothing  to  do  but  to  go  to  bed,  and  in  the  morning 
I  'm  so  much  the  richer." 

He  burst  out  laughing  suddenly. 

"  Miss  Rosalie's  queer  escapade  did  me  a  good 
turn.  I  had  Dayntree  there.  Rum  start  it  was ! 
Wonder  what  it  meant?  However,  I  don't  care 
now  I  Ve  got  my  way.  She  cut  me  last  night, 
looking  at  me  with  her  eyes  as  though  I  were  the  dirt 
she  could  n't  see.  I  'm  dashed  if  I  care.  I  mean 
to  win  all  before  me.  And  then  she  may  whistle 
for  me,  and  I  '11  see  if  I  '11  come." 

These  pleasing  thoughts  were  thrown  off  one  day 
during  a  walk  through  the  city  ;  in  these  wintry 
months  fog  as  usual  overpowered  London,  and  the 
lamps  were  lit  early,  while  the  full  tide  of  life 
hurried  on  beneath  them ;  Edward's  face  kept 
blossoming  out  of  the  mists  to  the  passers-by,  san- 
guine, fresh-coloured,  with  abundant  wavy  hair, 
and  a  white  brow  presiding  over  a  satisfied  smile. 
His  business  in  town  concerned  a  matter  between 
himself  and  the  harness-maker.  He  had  resolved 
to  have  "  the  crest "  marked  on  the  steel  fixings, 
and  meant  to  do  the  thing  well  while  he  was  about 
it ;  and  it  was  necessary  to  blow  up  the  harness- 
maker  for  some  trifling  imperfections. 

"  Expense  is  no  object  with  me/'  said  he,  when 
323 


Life  the  Accuser, 

the  man  explained  that  such  and  such  an  extra 
embellishment  meant  further  outlay. 

The  customer  turning  out  of  the  shop  with  the 
air  of  a  most  prosperous  young  man  in  London,  the 
shopman  looked  after  him,  and  felt  himself  invited 
to  charge  a  tip-top  price.  Edward  walked  on 
through  a  city  of  idle  dreams.  The  fog  was  alive 
and  throbbing  with  miraculous  figures,  ought  run- 
ning on  ought  and  forcing  the  units  into  royal 
significance. 

"  Say  that  the  shares  mount  up  even  at  the  rate 
of  sixpence  a  month  until  the  next  dividend  comes 
round — and  that's  slow  as  things  might  go  —  and 
then  take  only  a  moderate  leap  in  value;  for  it's 
best  to  do  things  on  a  low  basis  and  leave  a  margin 
for  possibilities.  Well  now  !  Let 's  start  from  the 
beginning.  Old  dad  bought  20,000  one-pound 
shares  at  los.  each,  and  they  were  at  par  within  a 
year's  time  =  £20,000.  They  had  doubled  their 
value  at  the  time  of  his  death  — £40,000,  of  which, 
let  me  say,  Dayntree  fraudulently  deprived  me  of 
£8,000,  and  handed  it  round  to  the  rest  of  the 
family.  Leaves  me  with  £32,000.  Company  de- 
clares a  big  dividend,  and  the  public  rush  to  buy ; 
and  within  a  few  months  of  his  death  the  shares 
have  put  on  a  value  of  something  over  12  per  cent. 
Why  should  n't  they  go  on  going  up  —  sixpence  a 
share  per  month  say  =  £  500  a  month  ?  [Dash 
that  £8,000  Dayntree  deprived  me  of,  it  spoils  the 

sum.]     Twelve  times  £500  equals " 

324 


Cold  Winter. 

He  broke  off  to  make  an  exclamation.  Having 
come  down  Old  Broad  Street,  he  was  turning  into 
Threadneedle  Street,  and  here  the  streets  were 
thronged  with  eagerly  striving  and  moving  men ; 
there  seemed  an  unusual  bustle,  and  he  was  thrust 
hither  and  thither.  Two  young  fellows  who  had 
been  walking  before  him  stopped  at  the  greeting  of 
a  third,  and  Edward's  career  was  brought  up  short ; 
this  jolt  to  his  thoughts  and  his  march  shook  the 
spark  of  anger  from  him.  The  third  young  man 
had  pushed  his  hat  back  on  his  head;  he  was 
pale  and  untidy,  and  bore  evidence  of  exhaustion. 
How  common  these  commercial  fellows  looked, 
to  be  sure!  Edward  stepped  aside,  trying  to 
get  past;  one  had  need  to  be  an  eel  to  thread 
one's  way  amongst  them  easily,  and  now  he  was 
forced  to  hear  the  vulgar  talk ;  the  face  of  the 
third  disagreeable  commercial  person  twitched, 
he  could  not  but  remark,  with  a  sour  kind  of 
grin. 

•"I  say,  you  fellows,"  he  heard,  "  I  'm  feeling 
pretty  sick,  I  can  tell  you.  Ought  equals  zero  or 
nothing  at  all  this  settlement.  Goldman  &  Co. 
have  just  been  hammered." 

Edward  pushed  by  and  tried  to  remember  where 
his  sum  left  off,  but  it  had  gone  to  pieces  in  the 
jostle,  and  he  lost  the  hang  of  his  thoughts  ;  he  was 
nearing  the  Stock  Exchange  too,  and  the  bustle  of 
men  got  worse ;  there  was  really  an  extraordinary 
excitement  and  shouting;  amongst  other  agitated 
325 


Life  the  Accuser. 

faces  he  caught  sight  of  an  elderly  man  who  seemed 
to  be  suffering  from  some  physical  disability.  He 
walked  rapidly  at  first,  not  shouting  like  the  others, 
but  with  pale  face  and  starting  eyeballs,  and  then 
reeled  suddenly  against  a  lamp-post,  pressing  his 
hand  to  his  heart. 

"The  poor  devil's  bought  the  wrong  stock,  I 
suppose,"  said  Edward.  "  Now,  I  will  say  for  old 
dad,  he  always  knew  what  was  what." 

Wherewith  he  congratulated  his  good  fortune, 
and  felt  his  mind  once  more  drifting  after  his  lost 
calculation. 

"  Hang  it  all !  Where  did  I  leave  off?  I  mean 
to  sell  when  the  shares  have  touched  four  pounds. 
That 's  £  80,000.  It 's  not  what  I  'd  a  right  to  ex- 
pect, but  invested  at  —  say  —  ten  per  cent,  it  '11  do 
for  the  present.  And  afterwards " 

Again  he  was  brought  up  short  against  two  men 
talking  on  the  pavement.  One  was  working  at  his 
moustache  with  a  quick,  restless  movement  of  his 
fingers,  and  looking  with  harassed  eyes  into  the 
face  of  another;  this  second  gentleman  had  his 
hands  clenched,  and  was  working  his  arms  up  and 
down  while  delivering  his  opinions  in  a  white  pas- 
sion of  energy. 

It  was  something  about "  Parisian  financiers  "  and 
the  "  mad  spirit  of  speculation  "  and  the  "  slump  " 
that  had  come,  and  the  conduct  of  "  bulls  "  and 
"bears,"  and  the  number  of  houses  that  would 
tumble  after  Goldman's.  Somehow  Edward  felt 
326 


Cold  Winter. 

rooted  to  the  side  of  the  agitated  stockbroker,  in  a 
curious  eagerness  to  hear  more. 

"  Armstrong  !  " 

His  own  name  startled  him,  and  he  turned  to  find 
himself  confronted  by  Evan  Dayntree,  whose  face, 
calm  and  cheery,  but  not  without  a  hint  of  troubled 
sympathy  in  the  eyes,  seemed  out  of  place  in  the 
scene.  Edward  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  was 
being  looked  at  kindly,  and  at  once  his  vanity  was 
ready  to  take  affront ;  on  the  other  hand,  Evan  was  a 
county  man  in  spite  of  his  strange  taste  for  hard, 
humiliating  work  ;  it  would  be  well  to  respond. 

"  You  in  town?"  said  he,  remembering  his  profits, 
and  assuming  a  slightly  patronising  air  on  that  basis. 

"  Well,  yes.  You  see,  there  's  my  new  invention 
being  tried." 

"  An  invention  ?  "  inquired  Edward. 

"  Yes.  Not  much,  you  know.  Only  a  new  form 
of  dredging-boat  on  the  Thames.  I  thought  the 
disposal  of  the  spoil  could  be  done  more  quickly 
and  cheaply  by  pneumatic  power,  and  it  seems  it 
can.  The  trial  has  been  made  to-day." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Edward,  less  interested  than  it 
could  be  possible  to  imagine. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  see  you  looking  pretty  fit,"  added 
Evan  kindly,  and  rather  hating  himself  for  his  own 
success  at  the  moment. 

"Fit?    Pm  all  right!"   said  Edward,  throwing 
himself  back  into  the  prosperous  air  which  had  led 
the  harness-maker  to  lay  on  the  price. 
327 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  Oh,  then  !  You  Ve  sold  the  mine  shares  after 
all.  I  congratulate  you." 

"  Sold  'em?  Lord  bless  me,  no  !  I'm  no  fool. 
I  shall  hold  until  they  are  worth  four  times  their 
nominal  value,  and  I  can  tell  you  it 's  not  so  far  off 
now.  But  good-day.  I  shall  just  call  in  on  my 
brokers." 

He  pushed  by.  Evan  looked  after  him  with 
round  eyes  of  blank  amazement.  There  went  a 
fool  in  his  folly  as  Edward  marched  off. 

"  A  dredging-boat  on  the  Thames  !  "  sniggered 
he.  "  Well !  every  man  to  his  taste.  If  ever  there 
was  a  fellow  loved  a  muckrake,  it 's  that  Evan  Dayn- 
tree.  I  don't  know  what  the  county  people  are 
coming  to.  What  is  wanted  is  new  blood  amongst 
them." 

He  was  in  Poultry  by  this  time,  and  recalled  his 
own  remark  that  he  should  call  on  his  brokers ;  his 
destination  was  Cannon  Street,  and  to  arrive  there 
he  must  pass  the  broker's  door ;  his  feet  slackened, 
and  he  wondered  if  he  should  go  in.  It  was  merely 
out  of  bravado  that  he  had  said  he  should  call,  out 
of  a  vain  pretence  to  look  important.  In  reality  he 
did  not  wish  to  do  so  —  indeed,  he  had  an  odd 
recoil  against  it. 

"Damn  the  fellows!"  said  he;  "they'll  be 
pressing  me  to  sell.  They  're  all  sharks  alike,  these 
brokers.  But  they  don't  get  over  me.  '  No,'  I 
said  to  them  lately,  '  I  know  what  my  price  is,  and 
I  mean  to  get  it.'  Why,  they  wanted  me  to  sell  a 

328 


Cold  Winter. 

month  ago,  just  as  the  divvy  was  declared,  and  got 
up  some  drivelling  rot  about  a  rumour.  No  —  I  '11 
not  go  in." 

He  drew  out  his  watch,  and  saw  that  the  hour  was 
convenient  for  catching  his  train  at  Cannon  Street. 
He  was  close  on  to  the  door  of  his  broker's  office 
now,  and  as  he  neared  it,  a  clerk  rushed  out  with 
every  evidence  of  hurry,  bearing  a  letter  in  his  hand. 
Seeing  Edward,  he  pulled  up  sharp,  and  stole  a 
curious  notable  glance  at  his  face,  and  drew  aside 
into  the  corner  of  the  doorway  with  a  grave,  respect- 
ful movement,  as  though  assured  that  he  was  about 
to  enter.  It  is  the  doom  of  a  third-rate  nature  to 
turn  all  the  indications  of  the  finer  feeling  of  others 
into  shoddy ;  Edward  settled  his  shirt-collar,  and 
nodded  carelessly  and  passed  on ;  the  fellow  was 
only  a  clerk,  but  still  he  liked  this  deferential 
bearing. 

"  Ah  !  they  're  beginning  to  know  me  as  a  man 
who  understands  what's  what,"  said  he. 

Settled  in  a  first-class  smoking-carriage  for  the 
return  journey,  he  lit  a  cigar,  threw  himself  back 
against  the  cushions,  and  returned  to  his  calcula- 
tions. At  the  home  station  the  new  dog-cart  and 
the  new  groom  were  there  to  meet  him,  and  he 
experienced  fresh  exultation  when  the  smart-looking 
lad  sprang  down  and  threw  the  ribands  into  his 
hand.  He  glanced  over  the  harness  and  patted  the 
horse,  and  wished  the  new  set  would  come  from 
town  quickly,  and  then  got  in  and  enjoyed  thinking 
329 


Life  the  Accuser. 

how  well  the  turn-out  must  look,  with  his  well- 
dressed  self  in  front,  and  the  groom  sitting  with 
folded  arms  and  white-topped  boots  behind.  It  was 
getting  dark  when  they  reached  the  gates  of  the 
Court.  Edward  groaned  with  impatience  to  think 
that  the  groom  had  to  descend  and  open  the  gate 
himself;  of  course  they  ought  to  have  had  a  lodge 
long  since  ;  and  when  would  these  beastly  little  trees 
grow  up  and  make  a  respectable  avenue?  How- 
ever, the  drive  was  smooth  and  long,  and  he  put 
some  dash  into  his  driving,  and  brought  his  cart  well 
up  to  the  front  door  in  handsome  style.  On  the 
whole  he  enjoyed  himself,  though  his  spirit  was  for 
ever  criticising  his  surroundings  to  see  if  they  were 
up  to  the  mark.  Within  the  house,  however,  a 
darker  mood  seized  him.  His  inflated  spirit  came 
into  contact  with  the  not  so  inflated  spirits  of  others, 
and  a  violent  sense  of  irritation  ensued.  Folk  within 
the  home  were  just  in  the  commonplace  mood  of 
every  day,  engrossed  by  routine,  engrossed  by  pri- 
vate worries,  and  none  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
glittering  pageant  in  which  Master  Edward  walked 
—  in  his  own  view  —  as  the  central  object.  He 
went  first  to  the  morning  room ;  a  religious  dimness 
in  the  light,  a  whiskered  figure  on  the  sofa,  Aunt 
Caroline  poised  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  marking  his 
intrusion  by  a  rather  stony  silence,  warned  him  that 
Mr.  Dixon  was  present.  He  closed  the  door  with 
an  impatient  exclamation.  What  a  sickeningly  dull 
atmosphere  for  a  brilliant  young  man  of  the  world  1 
330 


Cold  Winter. 

He  sought  the  drawing-room.  Mrs.  Armstrong's 
ideal  was  the  old  one  for  women ;  she  desired  the 
girls  to  be  fitted  for  "  the  home  "  — to  be  "  domes- 
tic." It  was  Saturday ;  the  washing  had  been  sent 
up  from  the  laundry ;  callers  were  not  expected ; 
she  and  Sylvia  had  been  putting  the  buttons  on  the 
shirts,  darning  up  the  holes  in  the  young  men's 
socks,  and  thoroughly  repairing  the  house-linen ; 
they  had  been  at  it  all  afternoon.  This  was  the 
way  in  which  Mrs.  Armstrong  spent  every  Saturday 
afternoon  ;  she  did  not  "  receive  ;  "  but  then  the 
Armstrongs  were  so  little  sought  after ;  it  was  easy 
for  the  lady  to  keep  in  practice  all  her  delicate 
prosaic  arts  of  housewifery.  The  linen  never  was 
permitted  to  go  back  into  the  chests  unrepaired; 
to-day  a  smoking  chimney  had  driven  them  out  of 
the  sewing-room,  and  an  exceptional  amount  of 
damage  had  kept  them  at  their  labour  beyond  the 
usual  time ;  the  drawing-room  was  for  the  moment 
littered,  and  to  add  to  the  cause  of  offence  Eliza, 
incapacitated  by  a  bad  headache,  was  lying  on 
the  sofa  with  her  eyes  closed.  Mrs.  Armstrong, 
unfeignedly  sorry  that  any  hitch  in  her  beauti- 
fully regular  ways  had  occurred,  looked  up  on 
Edward's  entrance  with  a  ready  apology  and  ex- 
planation. 

"  Something  is  wrong  with  the  chimney,  Edward, 
my  love,  in  the " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  mother,  don't  worry  me  with 
these  domestic  details.  Am  I  to  have  no  peace  in 


Life  the  Accuser. 

my  life  ?  Here  I  come  home  from  a  hard  day  in 
the  City,  at  an  hour  when  a  man  expects  to  find  his 
women-kind  brilliantly  dressed,  and  something  of  an 
evening  prepared  to  cheer  him,  and  I  find  the 
drawing-room  littered  with  things,  and  all  of  you 
looking  the  merest  set  of  dowdy  drudges.  How  am 
I  ever  to  rise  with  this  kind  of  thing  going  on  ?  Do 
you  ever  find  Mrs.  Trelyon  sewing  in  her  drawing- 
room?" 

"  No,"  said  Eliza,  waking  up  from  the  sofa,  "  the 
table-linen  generally  has  holes,  and  she  doesn't 
mind  it  if  she  has  them  in  her  stockings." 

"  Be  silent,  Eliza,"  —  from  Mrs.  Armstrong. 

" or  Mrs.  Dayntree  hemming  and  stitching 

when  the  dinner  is  all  but  on  the  table " 

"  Edward  !  I  repeat,  I  regret  The  hour  has  run 
on,  I  admit,  but  even  now  the  bell  has  not  rung. 
As  to  being  brilliantly  dressed,  what  do  you  mean  ? 
Father  disliked  ostentation,  and,  moreover,  we  are 
in  mourning.  For  the  rest,  an  accident  to  the 
chimney  has  driven  us  out  of  the  sewing-room.  I 
assure  you  that  Mrs.  Dayntree  repairs  with  her  own 
hands " 

"  Pshaw  ! "  said  Edward,  and  slammed  the  door 
behind  him. 

"  Eliza,  do  get  up,"  said  Mrs.  Armstrong,  anx- 
iously, when  they  were  alone ;  "  that  is,  my  love,  if 
your  head  can  bear  it.  Sylvia,  ring  the  bell,  and 
get  the  things  cleared  away.  Eliza,  my  love,  don't 
you  think  we  might  put  on  our  Sunday  gowns,  at 
332 


Cold  Winter. 

least  to  please  him?  And  your  hair  is  certainly 
ruffled  like  a  mop." 

Having  slammed  the  door,  Edward  stood  gloom- 
ily in  the  hall,  and  speculatively  inquired  whether 
he  was  always  to  be  surrounded  by  these  depressing 
circumstances.  The  thought  of  Gilbert  drew  a  yet 
darker  frown  to  his  brow ;  he  was  afraid  that  Gil- 
bert was  not  going  to  be  a  credit  to  him. 

"A  man  cannot  be  hampered  by  his  relations  all 
his  life  long,"  said  he. 

And  he  moved  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the 
smoking-room. 

Of  late  Gilbert  had  begun  to  take  a  heavy,  slouch- 
ing step,  and  to  wear  an  inward  black  look  upon  his 
face,  and  to  hang  his  head.  The  women-kind 
mourned  over  him  with  aching,  constant  sorrow, 
and  were  tender  in  their  ways,  trying  to  draw  him 
back  by  cords  of  affection ;  for,  indeed,  they  whis- 
pered between  themselves  of  a  miserable  suspicion 
of  secret  drinking. 

Edward  reached  the  smoking-room,  and  opened 
the  door ;  a  blazing  fire  was  on  the  hearth,  the 
atmosphere  was  close,  and  the  fumes  of  tobacco 
and  brandy  filled  it.  Gilbert  was  not  one  to  be 
cheerful  in  his  cups  ;  he  had  just  drunk  himself  to 
the  stage  when  the  animal  in  his  rough  frame  had 
nearly  obliterated  the  man,  when  lurid  possibilities 
were  gathering  over  his  natural  good-nature,  ready 
to  overpower  it  by  sudden  storm.  He  had  a  sense 
of  failure  which  plunged  him  in  gloom ;  of  wasted 
333 


Life  the  Accuser. 

life  and  powers,  that  made  him  bitter  ;  of  injustice, 
fast  rising  to  hate  of  his  brother.  At  first  the  drink- 
ing had  begun  because  he  had  too  little  to  do ; 
since  his  father's  death,  and  the  circumstance  at- 
tending the  division  of  the  property,  he  drank  to 
kill  a  sense  of  brooding  anger.  Each  day  it  required 
more  and  more  drink  to  bring  him  to  such  a  pleas- 
antly fuddled  state  that  he  even  forgot  to  nourish 
this  exceeding  wrath;  at  the  moment  he  had  by 
no  means  reached  it,  but  was  in  the  condition  when 
thoughts  prowled  round  his  mind  like  hungry  beasts 
of  prey.  That  was  the  moment  in  which  Edward, 
in  his  fit  of  inflated  indignation,  opened  the  door. 
His  eye  took  in  the  surface  matters  at  a  glance,  — 
the  stooping,  brooding  figure  of  Gilbert,  ugly  as  sin 
can  make  men,  his  dark  curling  hair  grotesquely 
topping  him  with  childlike  beauty,  plucking  at  his 
fingers  and  staring  at  the  fire  with  glowering  eyes  — 
the  spirit-stand  and  glasses  by  his  side. 

What  Edward  did  not  see  was  that  the  creature 
by  the  fire  was  a  better  human  being  through  and 
through  than  himself,  a  ruined  good  average  man, 
and,  to  wit,  enormously  his  superior  in  muscle.  As 
it  happened,  he  might  as  well  have  tried  the  game 
of  stirring  up  a  hungry  tiger  with  a  goad  as  have 
acted  as  he  did. 

"  Faugh ! "   exclaimed    he,   advancing  into    the 

room,  with  the  white  drawn  face  of  petty  rage  ;  "  the 

place  smells  like  a  beer-house.     A  man  must  draw 

the  line  somewhere ;  and  really,  Gilbert,  if  you  're 

334 


Cold  Winter. 

going  to  degrade  us  all  this  way,  there  '11  come  a 
moment  when  I  can't  allow  my  house " 

He  had  spoken  in  a  shrill  snarling  voice ;  he  was 
answered  by  a  roar.  There  was  no  appreciable 
moment  between  the  words  leaving  his  lips  and  the 
explosion ;  the  figure  on  the  hearth  was  on  him  at 
a  bound,  and  he  found  himself  suddenly  called  on 
to  grapple  with  it.  It  was  n't  like  a  fair  fight  between 
men  ;  that  grip  was  instinct  of  the  release  of  pent- 
up  hate  j  and  before  he  had  time  to  parley,  to  ex- 
plain, to  retreat,  he  was  being  whirled  about  in  a 
quite  inconceivable  and  irregular,  manner,  without 
having  been  given  a  chance  or  a  breath.  He  mar- 
velled, between  the  exigencies  of  self-defence,  what 
could  be  the  origin  of  the  fray. 

They  dashed  from  side  to  side,  upsetting  anything 
of  unstable  equilibrium  with  which  they  came  in 
contact,  and  raising  a  hubbub  which  was  bound  to 
reach  somebody's  ear  outside.  At  length  Edward 
succeeded  in  wrenching  himself  free,  and  was  now 
barely  able  to  defend  himself  from  the  blows  levelled 
by  the  closed  fist  of  his  brother. 

The  ecstasy  of  passion  to  which  Gilbert  was 
brought  made  the  delivery  of  this  shower  of  blows 
a  more  intoxicating  relief  than  anything  his  strong 
brute  force  had  ever  experienced.  Out  of  the  pure 
vehemence  of  his  enjoyment  —  a  destructive  child's 
enjoyment  in  smashing  up  some  trifling  object  of  its 
dislike  —  he  might  have  tumbled  blindly  into  a 
serious  mischance,  had  not  an  interruption  occurred. 
335 


Life  the  Accuser. 

The  interruption,  however,  did  occur.  The  door 
flew  open,  and  Eliza,  a  dressing-jacket  about  her 
shoulders,  her  girl-face  in  white  dismay  looking 
from  between  her  flowing  hair,  stood  on  the  thresh- 
old. The  intrusion  acted  magically ;  Gilbert 
dropped  his  hands  in  an  instant,  and  with  a  strange 
cry  —  as  though  the  measure  of  his  nature's  despair 
opened  to  him  in  that  moment  —  ran  straight  to- 
wards the  girl,  and  laid  his  face  against  her  shoulder, 
under  the  loose  showers  of  her  hair.  Eliza  said 
not  a  word ;  she  looked  beyond  him  at  Edward, 
with  reproach  in  her  eyes. 

The  injustice  of  her  speechless  indictment  was 
the  last  bitter  drop  in  Edward's  cup  of  injury.  He 
staggered  giddily  to  the  sofa. 

"  And  this  is  my  home  !  "  cried  he. 

Next  morning  the  broker's  letter  arrived. 


336 


Cold  Winter. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ONE  evening  Norman  stood  alone  on  the  hearth 
in  his  drawing-room  ;  behind  him  was  an  interesting 
old  mantelpiece;  the  room,  cool,  delicious,  wide, 
was  panelled  ;  from  the  cabinets  came  an  odour 
of  the  flowers  of  bygone  days ;  the  place  was  full 
of  stately  reminiscence,  and  the  present  owner  was 
a  fitting  representative ;  time  and  tradition  had 
fashioned  his  distinguished  air,  and  fine  stock  had 
given  him  his  handsome  physique.  The  distinc- 
tion of  the  Dayntrees  was  in  a  certain  readiness  and 
aplomb  ;  in  the  past,  their  eminence  had  been  in 
statesmanship  rather  than  in  war,  and  their  success 
as  politicians.  But  while  Norman  carried  these  in- 
herited gifts  successfully  into  his  commercial  activity, 
his  nature  laboured  under  a  mental  complication ; 
he  had  a  strain  of  more  poetic  quality.  Whole, 
resolute,  and  self-possessed  in  matters  of  the  office, 
a  consciousness  of  duality  set  him  at  odds  with 
himself  in  more  intimate  affairs.  An  action  opened 
by  him  with  Dayntree  determination  and  at  a  some- 
what low  level  of  convenient  sagacity,  .would  pres- 
ently be  complicated  by  an  unresting  and  imperial 
22  337 


Life  the  Accuser. 

call  to  try  conclusions  between  this  cunning  of  the 
earth  and  the  reach  of  the  soul  after  spiritual  con- 
cerns. He  was  not  of  the  type  of  man  who 
flourishes  in  his  wickedness  as  the  green  bay-tree ; 
it  was  not  permitted  to  his  nature  to  be  finished 
and  coldly  bad  in  deed,  or  even  to  achieve  con- 
sistency in  pettier  ways ;  the  Nemesis  of  his  errors 
sprang  into  existence  with  the  errors  themselves. 

Opposite  him  hung  the  picture  of  an  ancestor  in 
the  court  trappings  of  a  former  day.  He  resembled 
his  descendant  with  a  difference  ;  the  same  resolute 
handsome  air  was  accompanied  by  a  hardness  of 
eye  that  Norman  missed ;  his  brow  was  indicative 
of  a  firm  but  narrow  equilibrium  of  mind  which 
leads  to  worldly  success.  Norman,  eyeing  the 
painted  face  with  its  surface  resemblance  to  himself, 
was  seized  with  a  conviction  that  a  like  success  and 
honour  would  not  fall  to  his  portion.  The  appre- 
hension was  sudden,  vivid,  unreasoned  ;  it  ran 
through  him  as  a  tremble  of  ruin  through  a  well- 
looking  building.  And  he  turned  his  eyes  away 
with  a  sharp  closing  of  his  mind  on  the  subject. 
The  trail  of  Constantia's  robe  was  on  the  stairs  at 
the  moment. 

Intercourse  between  the  husband  and  wife  was 
very  difficult,  but  for  the  sake  of  that  continuity 
which  each  one  silently  conspires  to  maintain  in 
life,  it  had  to  be  carried  on.  A  divorce  was  not  in 
the  game,  and  each  day  he  breathed  in  less 
tightened  fear  of  an  esclandre ;  that  did  not  seem  a 
338 


Cold  Winter. 

likely  device  from  Constantia.  But  what,  in  heaven's 
name,  was  her  purpose?  She  kept  the  issue  of 
her  conduct  behind  a  shut  brow,  and  so  far  he  was 
unable  to  surmise  it. 

There  was  not  time  for  speech  even  had  he 
sought  it,  for  an  accident  cut  the  opportunity  short. 
Steps  followed  close  upon  Constantia's  along  the 
hall,  and  as  the  husband  and  wife  eyed  each  other, 
the  prose  and  detail  of  existence  pushed  them 
apart.  The  door  opened,  and  the  butler  announced  : 
"Mr.  EvanDayntree." 

Norman  welcomed  the  presence  of  any  third 
person ;  but  that  evening  Evan's  was  not  destined 
to  bring  the  expected  relief ;  dinner  proved  to  be 
an  uneasy  occasion ;  there  was  eating  and  there 
was  talking ;  but  the  main  business  lay  in  the  silent 
preoccupation  of  each  mind  with  a  topic  ;  —  on 
every  side  was  a  preparation  for  spiritual  struggle, 
and  Norman  began  to  recognise  Evan  as  part  of  it ; 
he  recalled  the  lad's  glance  of  surprise  on  learning 
that  the  mines  were  handed  over  to  Armstrong,  and 
once  or  twice  during  the  meal  he  caught  his  eyes 
stealing  away  as  though  after  a  long  penetrating 
look.  It  makes  an  epoch  in  life  when  one  begins 
to  suspect  that  a  disciple  is  turning  into  a  critic ; 
the  intimacy  of  private  conversation  must,  of  course, 
he  said  to  himself,  be  avoided,  and  he  regretted  the 
absence  of  his  elder  children,  whose  presence  would 
have  effectually  prevented  any  engrossing  subject ; 
since,  however,  they  were  not  there,  and  since  he 
339 


Life  the  Accuser. 

found  himself  a  man  at  odds,  with  his  own  house- 
hold, he  took  the  lead  that  belonged  to  him,  and 
upon  Constantia's  rising,  rose  also  and  forthwith 
accompanied  her  to  the  drawing-room,  signing 
rather  coldly  and  peremptorily  to  Evan  to  follow. 
This  move  did  not,  however,  avail  him ;  Evan 
could  be  persistent  when  he  chose. 

"  I  understand  that  Sherman's  Reward  mines 
have  totally  collapsed.  I  fear  this  panic  has  been 
a  bad  sort  of  business  for  the  Armstrongs,"  he 
remarked,  standing  on  the  hearth  and  stirring  his 
coffee  slowly. 

"  For  Edward  Armstrong,"  said  Norman,  dog- 
gedly. 

"  I  met  Armstrong  in  town  on  the  day  of  the 
panic,  and  he  seemed  to  have  no  sort  of  a  concep- 
tion of  what  had  happened.'' 

"  Wisdom  has  not  taken  up  her  abode  with 
him." 

"  Look  here,  Norman  —  I  don't  mind  about 
Armstrong  myself;  indeed  I  feel  that  it  would  re- 
fresh me  to  have  the  shaking  of  him  —  but  he  had 
been  warned,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  He  had  plenty  of  warning." 

"  Eliza  told  me,"  said  Evan,  stirring  the  coffee 
about  very  slowly,  "  that  she  received  your  advice 
to  sell  out  of  the  little  bit  of  mine  scrip  she  owned ; 
and  that  she  did  so." 

"  Just  so.     She  received  plenty  of  warning." 

He  spoke  in  a  carefully  level  tone ;  but  his  face 
340 


Cold  Winter. 

hardened.  Constantia  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  with  failing  heart.  There  was  a  long  pause  ; 
Norman  found  himself  unable  to  fill  it  by  a  remark, 
and  Constantia  made  no  effort  to  do  so  ;  she  was 
watching  Evan.  The  latter  stood  in  his  former 
position  on  the  hearth,  staring  into  his  cup  and 
stirring  the  coffee  round  and  round  slowly;  then 
he  set  it  down  untasted,  pressed  his  thighs,  and 
straightened  himself.  Constantia,  looking  at  him, 
saw  that  he  had  a  very  troubled  and  gentle  air; 
withal  there  was  the  tension  of  resolve.  At  Nor- 
man she  dared  not  look;  her  heart  was  not  with 
him. 

"  Look  here,"  he  began  again  in  his  lad's  fashion, 
"  I  'd  like  to  have  the  kicking  of  him  downstairs 
—  in  a  fair  and  open  way,  don't  you  know.  But  — 
you  told  him  the  particular  rumour  that  reached  us 
before  the  division  of  the  property  was  made  ?  " 

"  I  warned  him  generally." 

"As  I  look  at  things,"  said  Evan,  with  added 
determination,  "the  mine  shares  never  ought  to 
have  been  handed  to  Armstrong.  If  the  property 
was  good,  it  was  unfair  to  the  rest.  But  if  you 
gave  him  the  portion  knowing  it  was  rotten,  that 
looks  to  me  unaccountable." 

That  was  the  moment  for  Norman  suddenly  to 
read  his  own  action  in  a  light  which  Evan  could 
not  throw  upon  it.  He  had  handed  the  rotten 
mine  shares  to  Edward  to  prevent  the  young  man 
from  compelling  him  to  worse  injustice  and  humili* 
34i 


Life  the  Accuser. 

ation.  The  situation  had  been,  in  reality,  a  nice 
balance  in  treacheries,  out  of  which  he  had  brought 
himself  and  others  with  the  least  possible  complica- 
tion. Meanwhile,  Evan's  criticism  was  producing 
a  cold  irritation  difficult  to  repress.  At  the  next 
words  it  broke  from  restraint. 

"  Armstrong  is  left  with  a  handle  against  you/' 
said  Evan. 

"You  have  sufficiently  delivered  your  opinion 
on  affairs  that  do  not  concern  you,  I  think," 
said  Norman ;  "  may  I  ask  a  reason  for  this 
impertinence?  " 

Evan  lifted  his  head  a  little  higher  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  pictures. 

"  I  hope  that  my  inquiry  is  not  impertinent.  1 
speak  in  the  hope  that  the  acts  can  be  justified 
somehow,"  he  replied. 

Norman  rose  from  his  chair,  and,  resting  one 
hand  on  the  table,  spoke  with  a  blaze  of  anger 
in  his  face. 

"You  presume  to  ask  me  to  justify  my  actions  to 
you?" 

A  sensitive  quiver  passed  over  Evan's  face,  but 
he  cleared  it  instantly. 

"  If  you  look  at  it  in  that  way,  I  had  better  go," 
said  he,  quietly  ;  "  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  over- 
stepped what  is  due  to  myself  and  you.  But  at 
present  you  think  differently.  Good-bye,  Constan- 
tia.  I  am  sorry.  Don't  you  fret.  I  expect  it  is 
all  right,  you  know." 

342 


Cold  Winter. 

And  he  turned  and  walked  uneasily  out  of  the 
room,  leaving  a  horrible  silence  behind  him. 
Norman  sat  down  again,  and  it  was  long  before 
he  could  bring  himself  to  look  up.  He  had  an 
impression  that  when  he  did  so  he  should  find 
his  wife  with  her  large  judging  eyes  fixed  upon 
him,  and  he  avoided  movement  as  long  as  he 
couid.  When,  in  desperation,  he  glanced  at  her, 
he  found  that  she  was  lying  back  on  the  couch, 
pale,  with  closed  lids,  and  seeming  faint.  Her 
weakness  drew  him,  and  gave  him  an  old  right ;  he 
rose  and  touched  her  hand,  whereat  she  opened 
her  eyes  and  made  shift  to  speak. 

"  He  had  guessed  ! "  she  cried,  with  clear  pre- 
monition ;  "  young  Edward  Armstrong  had  dis- 
covered your  secret,  and  you  bribed  him  —  bribed 
him  with  worthless  paper  !  " 

Norman  stepped  back.  How  swift,  how  merci- 
lessly acute  she  was  in  inference !  With  what 
undressed  words  she  named  her  fact ! 

Nevertheless  the  aspect  of  Constantia,  thus  over- 
thrown by  physical  weakness,  had  its  subtle  conso- 
lation. Of  late  there  had  been  slowly  clearing  and 
strengthening  within  his  mind  his  never-lost  convic- 
tion that,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  she  was  dearer  than 
all  others ;  that  there  was  a  fibre  of  himself  which 
she  alone  could  move,  and  by  which  she  held  him 
for  ever  as  her  intimate  possession  and  hers  alone. 
It  is  possible  both  to  a  man  and  a  woman  to  lapse 
from  a  high  affection  to  some  lamentable  craze ; 
343 


Life  the  Accuser. 

and  in  the  hour  of  his  worst  intoxication  about 
Rosalie  he  had  not  lost  sight  of  this  distinction: 
just  as  a  person  in  an  access  of  fury  against  one  he 
loves  is  conscious  in  the  midst  of  his  rage  of  a  su- 
preme emotion  of  affection  lying  beneath ;  above 
and  around  his  wrath,  an  affection  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  overcome,  and  which  is  already  prepar- 
ing the  unmeasured  remorse  that  follows  on  a  bitter 
word  to  a  loved  being.  Or  again,  as  a  person  who 
has  maintained  a  high  spiritual  experience  through- 
out life,  knows  that  no  fall  could  ever  be  deep 
enough  to  loose  from  his  ears  the  torturing  demands 
of  the  better  aspiration  he  had  followed.  From 
the  tenderest  and  the  highest  is  prepared  the  sharp- 
est anguish,  and  the  ties  from  which  the  soul  is 
not  to  be  freed  are  those  fashioned  from  the 
best. 

"  Let  me  be  judged,"  cries  man's  soul,  "  by  the 
one  who  inspired  me  with  the  unalterable  love  and 
highest  aspiration,  for  all  other  judgment  save  that 
is  too  small  for  me,  and  by  that  standard  I  am  alone 
to  be  measured.  Though  all  the  world  crowned 
me  saint  and  victor,  his  pardon  is  my  only  acquittal, 
and  if  he  deny  it  I  stand  unfurnished  of  beauty, 
purity,  and  worth." 

Meanwhile  this  evidence  of  her  husband's  deteri- 
oration drove  Constantia  from  her  attitude  of  pas- 
sivity on  to  a  course  which  she  had  contemplated 
from  time  to  time. 

It  happened  next  day  that  Rosalie  was  seated  in 
344 


Cold  Winter. 

one  of  her  silent  brooding  moods  over  the  draw- 
ing-room fire,  when  her  mother  entered  the  room 
dressed  for  a  drive.  She  raised  her  eyes  in  inquiry, 
and  dropped  them  again.  Mrs.  Trelyon  sat  down 
and  buttoned  her  glove ;  her  attire,  often  careless, 
was  particularly  so  on  this  occasion.  She  was 
wrapped  in  a  fur  cloak  that  had  once  been  hand- 
some, but  was  so  no  longer;  she  wore  an  old 
beaver  bonnet  tied  at  the  side  of  her  cheek  in  a 
knot  of  rusty  black  ribbon,  and  from  the  rim,  as  a 
defence  against  the  cold,  drooped  a  black  woollen 
veil ;  in  spite  of  this  disguise  her  figure  was  majestic, 
and  her  eyes  notable.  She  put  up  the  old  black 
veil  when  her  glove  was  buttoned,  and  looked 
doubtfully  at  her  daughter  ;  Rosalie  took  no  notice. 
Her  mother's  presence  made  her  uneasy,  and  she 
wished  to  be  alone;  she  stared  at  the  fire,  and 
longed  for  her  to  leave. 

"  I  am  going  to  pay  some  calls.  I  wish  you 
would  come  too,"  said  Mrs.  Trelyon,  in  a  some- 
what forced  voice. 

"  I  ?  Indeed,  no  !  This  cold  is  horrible.  I  can't 
move." 

"  Rosalie,"  said  Mrs.  Trelyon,  in  a  low  voice,  "  it 
will  be  a  good  thing  for  us  to  go  driving  together 
and  paying  calls." 

Rosalie  jerked  her  head  round  to  avert  her  face, 
and  leaned  her  cheek  on  her  hand  to  hide  its 
burning. 

"  I  cannot  conceive  what  difference  to  anybody 

345 


Life  the  Accuser. 

or  anything  that  would  make,"  she  said,  in  as  in- 
different- a  tone  as  she  could  command. 

Mrs.  Trelyon  did  not  respond ;  she  took  the  op- 
portunity of  Rosalie's  averted  face  to  gaze  at  her 
intently.  By  and  by,  with  a  long  deep  sigh  she 
moved,  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  closed  her 
eyes. 

"  What  were  you  staring  at?  "  asked  Rosalie,  who 
had  felt  but  not  seen  the  gaze. 

"I  think  —  the  past"  said  Mrs.  Trelyon,  in  a 
scarcely  audible  voice. 

"I  thought,"  said  Rosalie,  a  little  wearily,  "that 
you  were  looking  at  me." 

Mrs.  Trelyon  said  nothing ;  she  heard  the  car- 
riage-wheels and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  Had  you  not  better  come  ?   Won't  you  come  ?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  Mrs.  Trelyon  hesi- 
tated a  little  longer,  then  she  walked  out  of  the  room 
and  closed  the  door  behind  her,  leaving  her  daugh- 
ter to  the  loneliness  she  preferred.  The  front  door 
banged,  and  the  carriage  drove  away,  and  the 
echoes  died  in  the  distance ;  for  full  quarter  of  an 
hour  Rosalie  sat  numb. 

Outside  the  window  the  winter  landscape  was  a 
frail  sketch  with  colourless  spaces  from  which  the 
wind  scared  the  light;  looking  presently  upon  it, 
she  noted  the  skeleton  trees  and  the  clawing  of 
leafless  branches  against  the  buffets  of  the  East; 
and  then  she  had  an  impression  of  something  else 
stirring  in  this  chill  exterior ;  a  moment  later  there 

346 


Cold  Winter. 

passed  against  the  pane  a  face  bending  a  little  to 
the  keen  air,  a  faint  colour  in  the  cheek,  and  a  dark 
tress  blowing  across  it. 

Rosalie  sprang  to  her  feet  and  ran  half-way  to 
the  door,  and  stood  there  arrested ;  thrown  off  her 
balance  by  the  unexpectedness  of  the  event,  and 
with  anger  in  her  thoughts  against  Constantia's  in- 
trusion, she  could  determine  upon  no  course,  and 
while  attempting  to  conjure  her  heart  to  coolness, 
merely  listened  to  the  sounds  outside,  her  eyes, 
large  dark  orbs  of  tense  abeyance,  set  in  a  deadly 
face;  She  heard  the  on-coming  steps ;  the  door 
opened,  and  Constantia  was  announced ;  she  was 
clad  in  furs,  and  wore  an  aspect  of  grave  com- 
posure. The  servant  closed  the  door  behind. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down,  Mrs.  Dayntree  ? "  said 
Rosalie,  bitterly  conscious  that  her  lips  were  twitch- 
ing. 

Neither  woman  stretched  a  hand,  the  nature  of 
this  interview  did  not  allow  of  ordinary  movements ; 
but  Constantia's  eyes  covered  Rosalie,  and  before 
her  look  she  retreated,  running  back  to  the  far  win- 
dow, her  hand  upon  the  pane  as  though  to  lift  it 
and  leap  out. 

"  Do  not  avoid  me.  Do  not  shrink  away,"  cried 
Constantia.  "  Are  we  not  two  women  ?  " 

Rosalie  dropped  her  hand. 

"I  know  what  you  are  come  for,"  said  she, 
defiantly;  "it  is  to  reproach  me.  I  will  not 
hear." 

347 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"No,"  replied  Constantia,  "I  have  come  to  tell 
you  something  about  love.  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
as  a  woman  to  a  woman.'7 

Rosalie,  shivering  a  little,  sat  down  mechanically. 
And  then  Constantia  softly,  though  it  may  be  with 
anguished  effort,  began  to  tell  her  something  of  the 
meaning  and  nature  of  her  own  long  love  for  Nor- 
man, of  the  married  years  which  had  rooted  and 
deepened  the  relationship  begun  in  natural  emotion. 
The  deep  and  tranquil  meaning  drank  up  Rosalie's 
shallower  notion  as  the  river  takes  the  brook.  Her 
own  dream  began  to  show  to  her  eyes  as  tinsel 
beside  this  shining  relation  of  stanch  and  tender 
affection,  this  illumined  history  of  love.  And  while 
she  listened  there  appeared  within  her  mind,  hang- 
ing there  as  the  picture  to  the  story,  the  present- 
ment of  a  face ;  her  thought  stole  towards  it  again 
and  again ;  her  hand  turned  the  page  back  to  it ; 
she  was  tremblingly,  unwillingly,  conscious  of  its 
presence  there. 

Had  the  situation  been  less  tragic,  less  final, 
Constantia  had  conquered  in  her  appeal.  But  the 
elements  gathering  together  were  something  beyond 
the  force  of  the  girl  to  meet ;  she  dared  not  lift  her- 
self to  the  level  Constantia  expected  of  her ;  she 
dared  not  permit  the  response  to  which  her  native 
generosity  prompted  her.  Rays  from  a  higher 
nature  than  her  own  had  already  photographed  her 
presumptuous  deed  with  the  mean  inward  spirit  by 
its  side,  and  she  feared  indescribably  lest  the 
348 


Cold  Winter. 

mounting  light  should  reach  to  other  parts.  Her 
safety  seemed  to  lie  within  the  lumber-chamber  of 
her  own  soul,  and  therein,  wilfully  deaf  and  blind, 
her  false  preconceptions  about  her,  she  hid  from 
Constantia's  further  approach.  She  got  up  and 
walked  through  the  room,  and  took  a  chair  at  a 
distance. 

"Your  heart,"  said  she,  in  a  harsh  whisper,  "is 
eaten  up  by  the  anger  and  jealousy  with  which  con- 
ventional love  such  as  yours  guards  itself.  You 
have  come  here  to  spy  whether  I  also  suffer." 

"I  have  come,"  said  Constantia,  "in  my  own 
great  affliction  —  because  I  am  a  woman  like  your- 
self, and  like  yourself  capable  of  great  suffering. 
And  the  suffering  I  experience  is  too  deep  to  be 
named  by  the  words  with  which  you  describe  it. 
The  building  of  my  life's  work  is  threatened  with 
destruction.  A  love  rooted  in  the  remotest  fibres 
of  my  being  is  threatened.  I  have  wept  tears  of 
blood." 

Rosalie  turned  her  head  upon  the  cushions  of 
her  chair,  and  closed  her  lids  so  that  she  should 
not  see  the  sad  eyes  of  Constantia.  She  was  full 
of  sick  misery,  and  she  feared  above  all  things  the 
inroad  of  something  worse.  And  then  a  suspicion 
blazed  up  that  Constantia's  visit  was  from  Norman, 
that  she  spoke  out  of  a  courage  gathered  in  an 
interview  with  him.  So  far  she  had  not  questioned 
her  supreme  power  over  him ;  to  her  ignorance  it 
had  seemed  that  the  final  issue  of  the  connection 
349 


Life  the  Accuser. 

lay  in  her  own  hands ;  flattery  and  excitement  had 
debauched  the  judgment  of  a  mind  always  in- 
clined to  arrogance,  and  had  rendered  it  useless. 
Whence  the  suspicion  sprang  that  her  power  was  a 
little  less,  her  value  not  so  great  as  she  had  pic- 
tured, she  did  not  know ;  but  there  it  was,  small, 
galling,  and  unendurable.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
virtuous  parts  of  character  warranted  to  stand  the 
strain  of  a  false  position  when  the  less  worthy  parts 
thrust  that  upon  it;  the  rents  and  fissures  come 
everywhere.  During  the  last  months  Rosalie's 
training  had  been  towards  ignoble  action,  and  into 
ignoble  action  the  torment  of  the  new  doubt  thrust 
the  nature  that  was  not  otherwise  ignoble. 

She  sat  suddenly  upright.  The  one  supreme 
necessity  seemed  to  be  this,  that  she  should  put 
her  power  over  Norman  to  the  test ;  half-measures 
had  become  indignities ;  her  ultimatum  must  be 
delivered  now,  and  in  a  manner  not  contemplated 
before  even  by  herself. 

"  Mrs.  Dayntree  !  "  said  she,  slowly  and  clearly. 

And  her  heart  shrank  at  the  wide  uplift  of  Con- 
stantia's  eyes,  surprised  by  the  notable  change  in 
the  voice. 

"  Mrs.  Dayntree,  you  have  been  candid  with  me. 
I  sought  neither  your  candour  nor  your  visit.  You 
have  brought  me  both.  You  tell  me  that  the  na- 
ture of  your  suffering  is  neither  in  anger  nor  jeal- 
ousy. If  I  am  to  believe  you,  I  should  be  foolish 
not  to  trust  you." 

35° 


Cold  Winter. 

The  attentive  surprise  in  Constantia's  eyes  undid 
her  again,  and  she  broke  off  to  moisten  her  lips. 

"  I  repeat  I  did  not  seek  your  visit.  But  since 
you  have  come,  will  you  deliver  a  message  from  me 
to  your  husband  ?  " 

A  blush  coloured  Constantia's  cheek,  and  she 
rose  to  her  feet.  She  had  an  aspect  very  gentle 
but  also  very  majestic.  She  bent  her  brows  won- 
deringly  on  the  girl. 

"  Do  you  really  ask  me  to  do  this  ?  " 

The  controlled  indignation  should  have  been  a 
trumpet-blast  of  warning.  Rosalie  hesitated  long 
enough,  because  of  it,  to  make  her  next  plunge 
more  desperate  and  ruthless. 

"I  do,"  said  she. 

A  breath  came  and  went  through  Constantia's 
heart.  She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment.  Her 
mind,  kept  clear  through  weeks  of  difficult  right 
action,  saw  clearly  now ;  the  game,  she  perceived, 
was  thrust  into  her  own  hands,  for  the  solution  lay 
within  the  girl's  gigantic  error. 

"  I  will  carry  the  message,"  said  she,  in  icy  calm. 

Rosalie  fell  back  as  though  before  a  blow.  She 
was  exhausted  as  by  violent  wrestling,  though  Mrs. 
Dayntree  had  said  and  done  so  little.  By  an  effort 
she  steadied  herself  and  continued  her  disastrous 
speech. 

"  Tell  him  that  I  wish  —  I  require " 

Again  she  broke  off.  Constantia's  eyes  calmly 
questioned. 

351 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"I  require  him  to  come  —  to-morrow  —  in  the 
evening.  Mother  will  be  out.  The  old  place, 

say? 

Constantia  bowed. 

"Have  you  got  my  message  right?"  said  the 
girl,  in  a  loud  crying  whisper  that  astonished  herself. 

"That  you  require  him  to  come  to-morrow  in 
the  evening  when  your  mother  is  out,  to  the  old 
place.  I  have  it  clear,  I  think?" 

Rosalie  clenched  her  fists  and  bit  into  her  lip. 
Could  women  be  so  small  and  despicable  to  woman 
as  she  was  being? 

"It  is  my  right!"  cried  she,  in  another  sobbing 
whisper. 

"  Your  right  ?  Possibly  it  is.  At  any  rate,  I  shall 
not  fail  or  forget." 

The  girl  fell  back  in  her  chair,  utterly  beaten ; 
the  room  was  electric  with  warning,  but  she  could 
see  nothing  clearly.  The  presence  of  Constantia 
began  to  frighten  her ;  she  made  a  repulsing  move- 
ment with  her  hand. 

"  Vow  that  you  won't  say  more,"  she  murmured, 
in  inexpressible  weakness. 

"  I  shall  say  those  words  and  no  more." 

She  looked  up  for  an  instant,  and  found  the 
figure  on  the  hearth  still  majestic,  but  in  the  eyes 
bent  upon  her  hung  pity.  An  indescribable  appre- 
hension of  their  relative  positions  made  her  heart 
shiver. 

"  Go  now !  "  she  cried. 

352 


Cold  Winter. 

Constantia  hesitated.  The  room  to  Rosalie  was 
full  of  the  feel  of  her  pity. 

"  Go ! "  she  repeated,  in  a  spasm  of  hate  and 
humiliation  and  helplessness. 

And  then  she  covered  her  face. 


23  353 


Life  the  Accuser. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  SMALL  house  lay  in  a  lonely  position  about  two 
miles  south  of  the  commons.  Here  resided  a  pen- 
sioner of  Norman's,  whose  discretion  was  a  mingled 
result  of  natural  powers,  family  devotion,  and  good 
pay.  There  were  no  neighbours  near  enough  to 
exhibit  inconvenient  curiosity,  and  he  was  ot  an 
appearance  too  well-to-do  and  respectable  to  attract 
the  notice  of  the  charitable.  The  nearest  church 
was  four  miles  distant,  and  a  clergyman  having 
driven  over  to  secure  a  pew-rent  on  his  first  arrival, 
he  informed  him  that  he  was  of  the  Baptist  persua- 
sion. The  isolation  was  as  complete  in  its  way  as 
Robinson  Crusoe's ;  yet  the  existence  was  not  dull 
or  without  employment  and  even  excitement.  A 
little  land  lay  about  his  house,  and  he  and  his  wife 
kept  fowls  and  raised  garden-stuff,  and  lived  the 
existence  of  retired  innocence,  looking  neither  to 
the  right  nor  to  the  left  where  their  superiors  were 
concerned. 

The   following   evening,  Norman,  as  one  in   a 

dream,  and  acting  by  order  of  his  wife,  mounted  his 

horse  at  the  front-door  in  her  presence.     Stooping 

to  take  the  reins  from  the  groom,  he  noticed  that 

354 


Cold  Winter. 

she  was  still  standing  under  the  gaslights  of  the  halJ, 
looking  towards  him.  The  groom  was  already  re- 
treating in  the  direction  of  the  stable,  but  Norman 
checked  the  horse.  A  door  in  a  side-passage 
opening  at  the  moment,  Ted  appeared,  ran  up  to 
Constantia,  and  then  caught  sight  of  the  open  door 
and  the  horse  on  the  terrace  beyond.  He  would 
have  run  forwards,  but  Constantia  restrained  him, 
and  the  boy  became  restive ;  and  then  Norman 
saw  her  face  change,  and  a  rush  of  tears  flow  over 
her  cheeks.  He  set  his  horse  in  motion,  wishing 
he  had  not  looked  so  long  ;  but  the  incident  folded 
itself  into  his  mind  as  a  picture  into  a  book,  so  that 
at  any  moment  the  page  may  fall  open  upon  it. 

A  ride  of  at  least  four  miles  over  and  beyond  the 
commons  lay  before  him,  and  it  was  dark  already. 
Nevertheless  he  went  slowly,  his  head  hanging,  and 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ears  of  his  horse,  which  he 
saw  beneath  Lhim  against  the  snow-spread  road. 
The  night  was  clear  and  starlight,  and  every  tree 
snow-laden  and  every  twig  frosted  ;  the  frost  lay  on 
his  beard.  It  was  very  silent ;  he  could  hear  only 
his  own  breathing  and  the  steps  of  the  horse  and 
the  small  creak  of  the  saddle ;  but  amidst  this  com- 
prehensive quietude  of  nature  the  inward  voice 
began  to  call  on  him  aloud  by  the  names  of  the 
lost.  He  jerked  the  reins  with  a  sensitive  hand  at 
the  remembrance  of  the  word  "  unaccountable  "  in 
Evan's  mouth,  and  the  horse  sprang  forward  and 
had  to  be  restrained.  Then  it  hung  like  lead  in 
355 


Life  the  Accuser. 

his  mind  that  his  wife  was  left  weeping  and  isolated 
at  home,  and  his  son  held  back  from  his  embrace. 
Under  his  twitching  hand  the  horse  started  forward 
again ;  he  stooped  and  patted  its  neck  and  curbed 
it.  The  game  was  not  as  he  had  meant  to  play  it ; 
his  spirit  hunted  scores  of  minor  chances,  and  a 
veiled  presentiment  had  him  by  the  hair. 

"  Good  God  ! "  said  he  to  himself,  "  I  am  very 
lonely." 

He  let  the  reins  fall  on  the  horse's  neck  and 
forgot  to  guide  it ;  he  rode  through  the  still  white 
night  as  a  dead  thing  astride  of  a  phantom.  When 
the  light  of  the  cottage  came  in  sight,  rays  from 
certain  windows  assured  him  that  Rosalie  was 
already  there.  He  started  into  life  again,  and 
frowned.  Having  thrown  the  reins  to  his  servant, 
he  walked  from  the  gate  to  the  door  with  an 
unwilling  step.  It  was  opened  —  before  he 
knocked  —  by  Rosalie.  She  wore  a  wonderful 
dress,  and  her  face,  when  she  saw  him,  changed 
with  a  brilliant  smile.  He  blinked,  as  though  hurt 
by  the  sudden  light,  and  his  momentarily  closed 
eyes  fastened  on  the  picture  of  another  face, 
mournful,  and  dimmed  by  a  gush  of  tears.  It 
was  then  he  realised  that  the  knowledge  of  the 
girl's  ruthlessness  to  Constantia,  in  sending  the 
message  by  her  lips,  was  as  a  circle  of  explosive 
fires  in  his  breast. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  Norman  was  again  on  the 
road  on  his  return  journey.  If,  as  before,  his  body 
356 


Cold  -Winter. 

was  inert,  and  he  permitted  the  horse  to  pick  its 
way  sleepily,  the  reins  on  the  neck,  in  spirit  the 
thrills  and  stabs  of  existence  were  deep  enough. 
He  was  racked  by  self-flagellating  thought. 

And  yet  it  was  over  !  The  thing,  hateful  now  in 
retrospect,  was  done  for.  That  was  the  single 
consolatory  point. 

Rosalie  had  kept  to  her  resolve  to  deliver  an 
ultimatum,  and  her  claim  had  shaped  itself  to  the 
dimensions  of  her  early  extravagant  dream.  It  had 
been  nothing  less  than  on  his  complete  adhesion ; 
the  tribute  to  her  imaginary  power  over  him  was  to 
be  the  overthrow  of  every  other  part  of  his  life. 
Either  that  or  nothing  it  had  been.  And  it  had 
brought  about  the  inevitable  conclusion.  There 
was  not  that  in  his  feeling  which  responded  to  such 
a  claim  for  a  moment;  and  there  was  no  other 
issue  possible  save  blank  refusal.  He  had  felt 
himself  become  cold  under  her  turmoil,  his  passion 
ebbing  down  as  a  tide,  to  leave  a  chill  space  be- 
hind, over  which  his  memory  now  moved  chillily 
regretful. 

The  thought  of  her  eyes  haunted  him,  however, 
confronting  him  as  they  had  done  steadily,  earnest 
and  appealing  as  Constantia's  own,  though  set  in  a 
face  somewhat  haggard  from  anxiety.  For  it  was 
just  when  emotion  expired  that  something  in  Rosalie 
had  presented  itself  as  a  definite  characteristic  which 
he  had  failed  to  notice  before.  Her  claim  had  been 
on  the  rare  and  the  high  ;  that  was  the  soul-search- 
357 


Life  the  Accuser. 

ing  thing ;  he  had  divided  his  own  nature  and  given 
a  woman  to  either  part,  and  the  two,  when  brought 
into  collision,  did  not  consent  to  the  separate  allot- 
ment. He  had  seen  Rosalie  standing  before  him, 
not  as  an  object  of  sensuous  delight,  but  as  an  in- 
jured human  being,  preferring  an  unfulfilled  claim. 
And  this  formed  the  fret  and  vexation  to  himself. 
Men  break  these  transient  ties  over  and  over  again  ; 
but  usually  there  is  some  compensating  medium : 
the  nimble  all-consoling  coin  comes  in.  But  here 
was  a  creature  who  proclaimed  her  price  to  be  high, 
who  averred  that  she  had  given  her  portion  and  had 
not  received  her  change.  That  was  a  maddening 
position  for  a  man  of  fastidious  chivalry  to  be  placed 
in! 

Then  had  she  but  burst  into  shrill  upbraiding ! 
She  had  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  Finding  him 
inflexible,  she  had  broken  off  her  passion  and  her 
words  with  a  stroke.  It  was  necessary  to  apprehend 
yet  new  qualities ;  he  saw  her  suddenly  from  the 
side  which  puzzled  and  alarmed  her  mother.  Her 
phrases,  few  and  direct,  were  merciless  to  herself, 
and  equally  so  —  whether  she  realised  it  or  not  — 
to  him. 

"  I  have  never  loved  you  !  "  was  the  first  she 
uttered,  after  the  long  silence  by  which  she  marked 
her  acceptance  of  his  final  reply. 

He  recalled  how  she  had  turned  and  looked  at 
him,  and  how  the  colour  fled  from  her  cheek  when 
she  spoke.  For  the  moment  he  had  not  seized  her 

358 


Cold  Winter. 

meaning,  and  had  hailed  this  cool  dropping  of  fact 
into  the  midst  of  turmoil.  The  second  afterwards 
'he  understood.  An  excessive  perplexity  harassed 
him  in  the  remembrance  as  it  had  harassed  him  in 
the  moment ;  the  thought  of  her  face  and  attitude 
was  a  cruel  sting  now.  What  and  who  had  taught 
her  the  distinction  ?  He  saw  her  in  memory  throw 
herself  huddled  up  in  a  chair,  with  closed  eyes  — 
shame  putting  out  her  beauty ;  and  yet  capable  of 
uttering  those  few  self-accusing,  remorseless,  unde- 
feated phrases  which  brought  such  sharp  humilia- 
tion on  himself. 

"/was  the  persistent  aggressor,"  she  had  said. 

He  coloured  darkly  in  the  night  at  the  remem- 
brance of  it  —  at  the  two-edged  blow  which  stabbed 
its  mortification  into  his  own  heart  at  the  moment 
it  had  stabbed  her  own.  If  she  had  but  accused 
him  more ! 

"  Nature  is  very  blind,"  she  had  muttered  to 
herself. 

Good  God  !  It  was  better  for  women  in  their 
fall  to  be  more  reticent,  to  draw  the  veil  decently. 
Those  words  of  hers  crept  through  the  night  after 
him.  What  a  hideous,  hateful  mistake  it  had  all 
been ! 

"It  is  very  —  commonplace"  she  had  muttered 
again,  in  the  same  self-inclosed  tone. 

Wrhat  was  she  thinking  of?  Her  attitude  left 
him  more  shocked,  disturbed,  and  harassed  than  he 
could  have  conceived  possible.  What  ailed  his 

.359 


Life  the  Accuser. 

manhood  that  the  situation  brought  him  no  chance 
to  be  anything  but  contemptible?  He  recalled  his 
poor,  inadequate  reply, — 

"  I  beg  that  you  won't  take  it  to  heart.  I  shall 
keep  out  of  your  way  as  much  as  possible." 

"  Yes,"  she  had  retorted  in  the  same  inward  whis- 
per ;  "  the  man  —  and  the  woman." 

Though  she  had  lain  huddled  in  her  chair,  the 
brilliant  dress  crushed,  the  eyes  closed,  and  the 
breath  now  and  then  audible  through  the  dry  lips, 
when  she  spoke,  she  smote. 

"Don't  you  see  what  the  hideous  thing  is?" 
had  been  another  of  her  phrases.  "  We  may  keep 
out  of  each  other's  ways,  but  we  can't  keep  out  of 
each  other's  memories." 

He  had  said  nothing,  but  remembered  with  re- 
gret that  Constantia  would  have  the  same  delicate 
apprehension  of  the  eternity  of  things.  Then  he 
frowned,  cut  to  the  heart  that  he  had  linked  Con- 
stantia with  Rosalie.  Again  it  sank  heavily  to  the 
bottom  of  his  thoughts  that  Constantia  had  not 
withdrawn  her  garment  from  the  girl. 

"  It  is  a  hateful,  miserable  business.  It  is  a  de- 
testable mistake  to  interfere  with  women,"  he  cried 
aloud  ;  ' '  but,  after  all,  it  is  over." 

And  his  horse  started  at  his  voice. 


360 


Cold  Winter. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  Armstrongs  still  lingered  on  at  The  Court, 
but  the  splendour  had  vanished  under  Mr.  Arm- 
strong's reductions  in  expenditure.  The  details 
were  unspeakably  distasteful  to  Edward.  All  the 
carriages  save  one  small  pony-chaise  had  been 
sold  ',  there  was  a  shrinkage  in  every  part  of  the 
establishment,  the  female  servants  had  dwindled 
to  three,  and  the  men  had  come  down  to  a  single 
gardener,  who  despaired  over  the  extent  of  land 
committed  to  his  culture,  and  pottered  over  his 
favourite  vegetable  in  one  corner  of  it,  but  who 
groomed  and  harnessed  the  pony  when  desired. 
Mrs.  Armstrong,  with  a  gentle  determination  which! 
Edward  could  not  resist,  argued  each  reduction  at 
the  family  board ;  perhaps  in  her  secret  heart  she 
rejoiced  to  discover  herself  restored  to  a  leading 
position,  and  at  once  exercised  her  power  in  bring- 
ing home  to  her  circle  a  wholesome  recognition  of 
the  change  which  had  befallen  them.  She  was 
perhaps  apt  to  be  excruciatingly  candid,  on  the 
points  desiring  it  defined  and  articulated ;  her 
clippings  and  snippings  at  expense  were  thorough  ; 
she  saved  candle-ends  and  watched  the  carving, 


Life  the  Accuser. 

and  turned  the  gas  low  in  the  hall  and  curtailed 
the  girls'  frills ;  she  set  herself  and  them  to  menial 
offices  in  coarse  aprons ;  Edward  came  across  his 
sisters  bed-making  and  dusting ;  there  seemed 
more  cleaning  than  usual.  Sylvia  was  taught  to 
iron,  and  Eliza  "  washed  up  "  with  a  gentle,  long- 
suffering  face.  A  solemn  energy  of  useful  toil  per- 
vaded the  house,  and  Edward  could  never  get  out 
of  the  way  of  it.  Gilbert  rather  enjoyed  the  fun, 
and  good-naturedly  offered  to  help  with  the  knives. 
Edward,  with  an  air  of  unappreciated  merit,  handed 
in  his  bills. 

One  luxury  Mrs.  Armstrong  did  not  discard,  and 
that  was  the  Century  newspaper ;  it  came  in  regu- 
larly by  the  noon  post.  Eliza  found  it  lying  on 
the  drawing-room  table  one  day  and  opened  it. 

"There  is  a  leading  article  which  will  interest 
you,"  said  Sylvia,  who  was  always  beforehand  in 
these  things. 

i  Eliza  turned  to  the  page,  and  found  it  illumined 
by  the  name  of  "  Evan  Dayntree." 

The  article  contained  an  account  of  his  work  as 
an  engineer  beginning  with  a  reference  to  the 
humble  but  ingenious  dredging-boat  on  the  Thames. 
It  went  on,  however,  to  describe  the  scope  of  his 
conception  of  the  drainage  of  great  cities. 

"  The  merest  tyro,"  ran  the  article,  "  will  per- 
ceive that  such  suggestions  involve  a  far-reaching 
change  in  our  sewage  system.  It  is  true  that  the 
march  of  human  intelligence  has  brought  us  on  a 

362 


Cold  Winter. 

long  way  beyond  the  time  when  Mr.  Chadwick, 
as  autocrat  of  sanitation,  propounded  his  infallible 
panacea  of  hermetically  sealed  drains  with  their 
typhoid-breeding  effect.  It  is  true  that,  dating 
approximately  from  the  announcement  of  the  Poor 
Law  Commissioners  of  their  inability  to  cope  with 
the  misery  and  inertia  which  were  the  direct  out- 
come of  insanitary  conditions,  the  Health  of  the 
Public  has  been  recognised  as  a  proper  province 
for  continuous  and  progressive  legislation ;  we 
have  lately  passed  an  Act  consolidating  and  im- 
proving former  Public  Health  Acts,  and  we  have 
but  just  passed  our  Rivers  Pollution  Act ;  all  this 
is  in  the  right  direction.  But  it  is  reserved  to  this 
energetic  young  engineer  to  have  suggested  a 
sweeping  reform  which  brings  within  measurable 
distance  a  permanent  solution  of  the  problem  of 
the  sanitation  of  our  cities,  in  face  of  an  increas- 
ing population.  Not  less  admirable  than  the  engi- 
neering skill  displayed,  is  the  spirit  in  which  he 
touches  the  connection  between  this  essentially 
dismal  science  and  such  immaterial  benefits  as  the 
'  efficiency  of  the  citizen  as  an  acting,  willing  unit 
of  the  State.'  Make  the  soil  pure,  and  the  atmos- 
pheric conditions  healthy,  and  the  fruit  will  be  fair, 
is  his  postulate.  *  We  will  have  towns,'  he  writes 
in  a  series  of  masterly  articles  in  the  Engineer;  '  let 
us  at  least  make  it  possible  that  their  product  shall 
be  —  not  squalid  and  inert  paupers,  but  right- 
minded  men  and  happy  women.'  A  thinker,  a 

363 


Life  the  Accuser. 

practical  man,  who  thus  links  superb  results  to 
prosaic  beginnings,  is  a  fitting  person  for  the  Gov- 
ernment to  honour.  We  regret  that  his  work  of 
sewerage  engineering  should  be  interrupted  for  the 
moment,  but  we  have  to  announce  that  he  has 
been  selected  by  the  Government  to  head  the 
expedition  about  to  depart  for  Suez,  to  put  into 
execution  a  scheme  of  his  own  for  overcoming 
the  difficulty  caused  by  the  opposition  of  the 
Breakwaters  to  the  washing  of  the  currents  above 
Port  Said.  The  scheme  has  the  hearty  co-opera- 
tion of  the  French  Government,  and  the  approval 
of  M.  De  Lesseps ;  and  there  is  fair  hope  of  this 
difficult  dredging  problem  being  solved  at  last." 

Eliza  was  not  the  only  one  who  that  day  perused 
the  leader.  The  Century  was  usually  delivered  at 
South  Downs  by  the  noon  post ;  Rosalie  kept  the 
habit  of  studying  its  pages  daily,  though  her  reason 
for  doing  so  was  lost.  When,  upon  opening  it 
that  morning,  she  found  the  name,  long  searched 
for  in  vain,  prominent  in  the  first  leader,  it  startled 
her  indescribably. 

After  the  pitiful  storm  of  her  last  interview  with 
Norman,  she  had  existed  listlessly  under  the  eyes 
of  her  mother.  The  past,  she  told  herself,  was 
"over;"  but  there  was  no  opening  future. 
Still  the  sense  of  finish  was  in  one  sense  a  con- 
solation —  or  would  have  been  save  for  her 
mother's  manner.  Mrs.  Trelyon  made  no  em- 
barrassing remarks,  but  her  face  was  habitually 
364 


Cold  Winter. 

ploughed  by  a  dreadful  anxiety,  and  the  girl 
became  aware  that  she  herself  was  somehow  the 
source  of  it.  There  were  moments  when  these 
signs  of  pain  in  her  mother's  countenance  awak- 
ened a  corresponding  sympathy  in  her  heart; 
she  yearned  to  creep  up  to  her  humbly  and 
whisper  her  confession,  and  bring  her  the  wel- 
come assurance  that  the  error  was  resigned. 
But  a  great  gulf  of  reticence  lay  between  these 
two  poor  souls,  and  across  it  they  looked  upon 
each  other  in  fear.  Rosalie  could  not  but 
remark  that  any  wistful  glance  on  her  part,  any 
move  towards  an  understanding,  was  met  on  the 
mother's  side  by  shrinking  alarm.  Holding  still 
her  preconception  as  to  the  abnormally  striking 
circumstances  of  her  birth,  she  began  to  find  the 
fancy  settling  through  indifference  to  cold  eclipse. 
She  was  hungry  for  common  love,  and  longed 
after  the  adopted  father  of  her  youth,  and 
recoiled  from  this  stranger  of  her  splendid 
dreams.  After  all,  Mrs.  Trelyon's  love  had  been 
a  genuine  affection,  serving  for  many  homely 
days  as  well  as  for  more  romantic  and  stirring 
times. 

Into  this  suspended  calm  fell  the  Century 
article.  At  first  she  read  in  confusion,  unable 
to  grasp  the  meaning,  and  then  it  flew  to  her 
heart  that  the  "  brown  slim  young  man "  was 
referred  to,  and  not  another,  "  Eliza's  hero  "  and 
her  own  once  despised  lover. 

365 


Life  the  Accuser. 

A  trivial  event  will  lay  bare  to  the  mind  some 
hidden  and  hitherto  unrealised  condition. 

The  article,  startling  her  as  it  did  with  Evan's 
name  in  the  place  where  for  months  she  had 
sought  another's,  operated  as  the  rending  of  a 
veil  within.  There  was  knowledge  there  which 
she  had  held  back  with  a  resolute  hand.  Laying 
the  article  aside  —  and  she  seemed  to  gather 
the  sense  rather  through  leaping  heart-beats 
than  her  eyes  —  she  tremblingly  recalled  her  last 
interview  with  him.  But  had  she  ever  forgotten? 
It  stood  within  her  memory  vivid  and  living  to 
the  smallest  detail,  and  she  felt  within  the  unmis- 
takable but  bitter  wakening  of  her  heart  —  a 
heart  which  passed  into  its  best  knowledge  only 
to  realise  that  the  maiden  strength  of  it  was 
gone. 

It  was  an  inconceivable  wrecking  grief,  and 
her  spirit  was  not  free  to  sustain  it.  Over- 
whelmed by  pain,  she  found  her  habit  of  inertia 
no  longer  tolerable,  and  leaving  the  house  spent 
the  next  hour  or  two  in  rapid  and  exhausting 
walking.  Her  thoughts  went  with  her ;  she  cried 
to  the  lost  patience  whose  empty  nest  no  remorse 
could  fill ;  —  to  the  waiting  spirit  which  should 
have  kept  it  warm  for  genuine  happiness.  The 
trees  by  the  wayside  sorrowed  with  her  as  she 
went,  their  cold  fingers  dipped  in  frost;  the 
clouds  drifting  sluggishly  across  a  colourless  sky 
were  heavy  with  her  woe ;  the  very  brooks 
366 


Cold  Winter. 

were  dumb.  Her  spirit,  laden  with  self-created 
misery,  could  make  no  shift  against  the  weight 
of  sorrow ;  she,  a  thing  enslaved,  could  stand 
erect  under  no  such  burden.  She  walked  until 
her  limbs  were  weary,  then  returned  home  and 
threw  herself  upon  a  chair  in  her  own  sitting- 
room  and  closed  her  eyes.  A  servant  after  an 
interval  knocked  at  the  door  and  brought  a  letter 
on  a  tray.  She  recognised  the  handwriting, 
and  extended  trembling  fingers.  There  was 
neither  stamp  nor  postmark,  and  she  questioned 
how  it  had  come.  A  messenger  had  left  it,  the 
man  replied.  That  stung  to  new  feeling;  she 
dropped  the  letter  on  her  knee  and  pressed  her 
hands  to  her  heart. 

"  My  God  !  He  is  here  —  here  —  here  !  "  she 
cried  over  and  over  again. 

To  read  the  sheet  was  a  dread.  The  inno- 
cent unquestioning  devotion,  the  man's  gift  and 
demand,  were  judge  and  conviction  in  one ;  an 
angel  with  drawn  sword  stood  within  the  words 
and  drove  her,  running  and  breathless,  to  an 
outer  place.  Her  face  hung  swooning  over  the 
superscription  while  her  fingers  tried  the  seal. 
For  why  pretend  to  push  desolation  from  her 
when  it  swallowed  her  with  so  cavernous  a 
throat? 

"  You  will  not  have  forgotten  —  I  must  at  least 
hope  that  "  —  it  ran,  "  something  of  what  I  said 
367 


Life  the  Accuser. 

to  you  when  last  we  met.  I  should  think  myself 
fortunate  to  look  back  on  an  interview  which 
brought  you  even  for  one  moment  to  my  arms, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  trouble  you  displayed, 
and  which  I  could  not  follow.  I  have  never 
forgotten  it  for  an  instant.  I  thought  my  great 
love  gave  me  the  right  to  fight  my  way  up  to 
some  position  from  which  I  could  honourably 
offer  you  the  best  protection  a  man  has  it  in  his 
power  to  offer  a  woman.  I  am  thankful  I  have 
succeeded  ;  the  French  and  English  Governments 
have  chosen  my  scheme,  and  are  sending  me  to 
Suez.  I  do  not  know  what  your  trouble  is,  but  I 
honour  and  love  you  unspeakably;  and  I  ask 
you  to  come  out  of  it  and  to  belong  to  me  and 
to  my  life  —  to  my  life,  which  I  will  try  and  con- 
tinue to  make  worthy  of  you,  and  honourable 
enough  to  honour  you.  I  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife.  I  am  coming  this  evening  at  six  o'clock 
to  take  my  answer. 

"  EVAN  DAYNTREE." 

She  dropped  the  letter  back  on  her  knee. 
The  words  went  out  of  her  mind  with  a  rustle  as 
of  wing ;  they  left  her  cold  and  desolate  in  the 
clip  of  a  dreadful  darkness.  Thus  she  remained 
hushed,  incapable,  stricken,  for  an  hour's  time. 
And  then  the  passion  of  her  heart's  grief  woke 
in  her ;  she  broke  into  wild  sobbing  and  crying ; 
she  fell  upon  her  knees  and  lifted  her  face  and 
called.  368 


Cold  Winter. 

"  Mother  !    mother  !    mother  !  "  was  the    cry. 

She  called  as  one  calls  for  God ;  a  word  for 
"  help "  was  on  her  tongue ;  the  picture  of  her 
real  mother  did  not  pass  her  mind ;  she  cried 
against  fate  and.  irrevocable  sequence,  and  for 
the  refuge  of  some  great  Arm  against  herself. 
And  the  door  opened  and  Glynn  put  in  her  head. 
At  this  the  tragedy  of  her  mourning  turned  to  a 
lesser  key,  and  a  spasm  seizing  her  she  shrieked 
with  a  pointing  finger  at  the  face  —  small,  curi- 
ous, and  shrivelled  with  wry  mouth. 

"  You    rat ! "  cried  she  ;    "  you  rat !    Begone.'* 

Whereat  Glynn  fled  with  hands  uplifted ;  and 
the  girl's  white  lovely  throat  shook  once  more 
with  the  moan  of  "Mother  !  mother  !  mother  !  " 
And  all  the  time  it  was  for  help  she  cried. 

The  servants  began  to  collect  and  to  whisper 
and  listen  outside ;  but  none  dared  open  the 
door.  Mrs.  Trelyon  was  the  last  in  the  house 
to  move  to  her  daughter's  assistance ;  a  message 
had  been  carried,  and  at  length  the  servants 
beheld  her  walking  along  the  passage  in  their 
direction.  She  came  on  slowly,  a  beautiful  untidy 
figure,  with  trailing  garments  and  a  shabby  white 
shawl  huddled  about  her  shoulders ;  she  carried 
her  head  high,  and  looked  from  under  her  lids 
at  the  clustering  domestics  with  a  glance  so 
haughty  that  they  shrank  before  her  and  stole 
away  one  by  one  to  the  back  parts  of  the  house, 
the  under-housemaid  weeping  in  sympathy  for  the 
24  369 


Life  the  Accuser. 

unhappy  girl  whose  cries  of  distress  still  rung  after 
them. 

Mrs.  Trelyon  entered  the  room  and  closed  and 
locked  the  door.  Rosalie,  suddenly  silenced, 
rose  from  the  hearth,  her  face  a  white  flower 
beaten  by  storms.  She  was  still  wrapped  in  a 
loose  outdoor  cloak,  and  wore  over  her  rippling 
hair  a  picturesque  close-fitting  hat.  She  said 
nothing  when  her  mother  entered.  Mrs.  Trelyon's 
face  was  pale  as  death,  and  was  hardening  as  for 
some  dreaded  moment.  Catching  sight  of  the 
letter  lying  where  it  had  fallen,  she  stooped 
without  speaking  and  secured  it.  Rosalie  made 
no  resistance,  for  indeed  the  sight  of  her  mother's 
face  left  her  without  resources.  Mrs.  Trelyon 
read  the  letter,  and  when  she  had  done  so  there 
broke  from  her  lips  a  deep  cry  as  of  relief,  and 
something  that  was  more  like  glittering  light  than 
a  smile  changed  her  face. 

"The  gods!"  she  murmured;  "the  gods!" 

"  Mother  !     Help  me  !  "  cried    Rosalie. 

"  The  gods  !  They  still  help  those  who  help 
themselves,"  whispered  Mrs.  Trelyon  with  a  half 
sob.  And  like  one  distraught,  she  stood  gazing 
before  her,  and  curling  Evan's  sheet  round  her 
finger. 

Rosalie  glanced  from  the  letter  to  her  mother ; 

the  letter  no  longer  seemed  her  own ;  neither  did 

the  moment  of  her  misery  seem  her  own,  for  the 

darker  misery  of  her  mother  had  taken  it  captive. 

37° 


Cold  Winter. 

Then  at  last  her  mother  turned  with  a  softened 
look  on  her  face  which  Rosalie  had  never  seen 
before. 

"  I  thought  hope  was  over,"  said  she. 

"Yes  !  "  assented  Rosalie. 

"  No!     It  is  here!" 

"  No,  mother." 

"  I  repeat  it  is  here.  Listen  to  my  plans ;  am 
I  not  your  mother?  I  have  a  right  to  urge  an  im- 
mediate marriage,  and  he  shall  take  you  with  him 
to  Suez." 

She  untwisted  Evan's  letter  from  her  finger  and 
laid  it  upon  the  table. 

"  Mother,"  said  Rosalie,  in  a  whisper,  "  you  don't 
understand.  I  cannot  marry  Evan  Dayntree." 

Mrs.  Trelyon  approached  the  table  and  touched 
it  with  the  fingers  of  both  colourless  high-bred 
hands.  On  the  hearth  beside  the  table  stood  Ro- 
salie ;  a  high  arched  window  filled  with  the  pale 
winter  sky  and  showing  the  tips  of  snow-covered 
trees  threw  the  figure  of  her  mother  into  relief,  and 
drenched,  as  she  cruelly  felt,  her  own  white  cheek 
with  whiter  light. 

"Don't  you  see,"  whispered  the  mother,  leaning 
over  the  table  in  sharp  eagerness,  "  don't  you  see, 
dear,  that  Providence  sends  this  to  us  ?  Don't  you 
see  it  is  our  —  escape  ?  " 

Rosalie's  eyes,  two  spirits  of  despair,  clung  to 
her  mother's  face. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Trelyon,  after  an  interval 


Life  the  Accuser. 

which  she  had  filled  with  the  slow  restless  moving 
of  her  slim  hands  over  the  table,  "  you  don't  alto- 
gether dislike  him?" 

The  girl's  face  grew  whiter,  and  she  pressed 
both  hands  to  her  side. 

"  I  can't  marry  him,"  she  gasped. 

"  Ah  !  "  retorted  Mrs.  Trelyon,  passionately,  "  I 
know  more  than  you  suppose.  And  knowing  it,  I 
say  —  you  can  and  must." 

Rosalie,  with  the  same  steady  gaze  of  her  mourn- 
ful eyes,  shook  her  head. 

Mrs.  Trelyon  turned  and  walked  to  the  window ; 
twilight  was  gathering.  Her  aspect  standing  thus 
in  the  pale  light  of  the  window,  her  shoulders  hud- 
dled in  the  dirty  white  shawl  and  turned  against 
her  daughter,  seemed  indescribably  ominous. 

"  I  am  in  trouble.  Turn  and  be  a  little  kind 
to  me,"  broke  from  Rosalie's  lips  in  helpless 
amaze. 

"Kind?  Oh,  my  dear,  yes  —  if  I  can,"  re- 
turned her  mother  over  her  shoulder  and  sighing 
heavily.  "  But  there  is  only  one  way.  Take  it, 
Rosalie,  take  it.  With  shut  eyes  and  in  silence." 

"  You  have  no  other  advice  to  give  me  than 
that?"  murmured  Rosalie,  after  a  long  interval. 
"  Mother,  there  are  reasons  why  I  cannot  take  it 
—  reasons  in  myself."  She  paused ;  then  in  a 
low  but  very  steady  voice  continued  —  "  If  you 
can't  help  me,  won't  you  —  let  me  go  to  my 
father?" 

372 


Cold  Winter. 

To  this  came  no  reply ;  she  had  an  impression 
that  the  shoulders  in  the  shawl  were  moved  by 
secret  sobbing.  That  her  mother  should  weep 
seemed  rather  frightful  than  touching.  She  could 
bear  the  silence,  the  enigmatic  behaviour,  the 
physical  distance  no  longer,  and,  walking  un- 
steadily, approached  and  laid  hold  of  the  dirty 
knitted  shawl  with  one  hand,  and  timidly  caught 
the  tips  of  her  mother's  fingers  from  behind  with 
the  other. 

"  Be  open  with  me  at  last,"  she  entreated ; 
"  tell  me  the  truth.  My  adopted  father  taught  me 
not  to  fear  the  truth.  I  have  forgotten  most  of 
his  lessons,"  she  added  with  a  sudden  gush  of  tears, 
"but  at  least  I  have  the  courage  to  say  that  I 
know  I  have  no  real  right  to  his  name." 

Mrs.  Trelyon  pressed  the  girl's  fingers  con- 
vulsively, and  then  as  convulsively  snatched  her 
own  away. 

"  Don't,  Rosalie  !  "  she  cried.  "  We  are  two 
lost  women.  Unless  —  unless  —  Oh,  for  God's 
sake,  be  guided !  —  unless  you  will  take  my 
way." 

Rosalie  shrank  back  to  the  hearth  stupefied  and 
exhausted.  But  her  mother  turning  sharply  and 
suddenly  showed  her  face  coloured  by  a  passion  of 
energetic  resolve. 

"  You  don't  understand  !  You  don't  understand 
the  extent  of  the  disaster,"  cried  she.  "  People 
will  say  —  people  will  recall  —  I  thought  it  dead. 
373 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Are  those  listening  servants  gone?  Where  is 
Glynn?" 

She  darted  to  the  door,  looked  down  the  pas- 
sage, and  having  ascertained  their  isolation,  came 
back  and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  This  un- 
accustomed haste  and  heat  of  movement  alarmed 
the  girl  anew. 

"  Listen,  Rosalie !  Listen  to  your  mother ! 
Have  I  ever  entreated  you  before?  Use  my 
wisdom  —  my  own  success  is  the  proof  of  it.  At 
the  end  of  my  life  !  No  !  I  cannot  face  defeat 
and  shame.  It  lies  with  you  to  save  us  —  both. 
Oh,  this  hateful  world  !  Neither  you  nor  I  have 
been  so  very  wrong  after  all.  But  the  world  has 
no  mercy.  Fate  is  better.  Fate  has  sent  this 
loophole  of  escape.  The  chances  have  always 
been  on  my  side  because  I  knew  how  to  seize 
them.  My  dear,  don't  look  into  things ;  shut  your 
eyes  and  seize  your  opportunity.  Silence,  Rosalie, 
silence  is  the  best  and  safe  thing.  We  are  drown- 
ing creatures,  and  it  is  sheer  presumption  not  to 
snatch  at  the  help  thrown  towards  us.  The  will 
to  be  silent  and  passive  is  all  that  is  needed.  We 
can't  help  ourselves  and  our  mistakes ;  life  has  to 
be  a  series  of  skilful  adaptations  to  circumstances 
as  they  occur,  and  here  is  a  safe  bridge  over  a 
dreadful  event.  Take  it,  Rosalie,  take  it !  And 
believe  your  wretched  mother  that  there  is  no 
other  way." 

The  voice  snapping  and  twanging  with  over- 
374 


Cold  Winter. 

eagerness  paused  for  a  moment,  but  it  was  only  to 
gather  a  new  force  of  solicitation.  Once  she 
dropped  her  majestic  figure  to  a  kneeling  posture, 
and  raised  clasped  hands  to  her  amazed  and 
stricken  daughter. 

"  My  hard  fate  !  My  hard  fate  !  "  she  cried 
when  in  this  attitude. 

It  was  genuine,  it  was  tragical ;  but  the  soul  of 
Rosalie  recoiled.  She  was  subtly  wounded  in  a 
heart  still  partly  innocent  to  find  her  own  mis- 
doing not  tenderly  touched  but  coldly  accepted  as 
a  matter  of  course.  No  word  of  comprehension 
of  her  piercing  trouble,  as  it  presented  itself  to 
her  own  mind,  had  met  her  ear ;  she  found  the  core 
of  her  own  misery  ignored  while  she  was  urged  to 
the  acceptance  of  Evan's  offer  with  a  passionate 
insistence  that  bit  and  bit  at  her  fainting  heart, 
and  yet  failed  to  reach  the  citadel  of  her  resolution. 
"  I  cannot "  was  her  main  response,  backed  now 
by  pitiful  confession,  broken  by  sorrow,  tinged 
then  by  a  little  of  her  old  spirit,  and  falling  again 
to  the  accent  of  despair,  but  through  all  variations 
carrying  its  note  throughout  the  long  dispute  in 
poor  but  unyielding  resistance. 

"  I  fairly  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Trelyon  at  last,  in 
a  tone  of  bitter  misery,  "  you  do  not  comprehend 
what  is  your  own  plight." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Rosalie,  in  a  piteous  voice,  "  it 
is  you  who  do  not  understand.  It  is  not  merely 
what  I  have  done,  but  that  something  is  happen- 

375 


Life  the  Accuser. 

ing  in  my  own  mind.  I  see  by  the  light  of  this 
man's  goodness  that  I  have  reason  for  despair. 
I  cannot  bear  the  light.  I  could  not  stand  in  it. 
I  am  terrified  so  to  have  lost  the  way." 

Mrs.  Trelyon  moaned,  and  turned  again  to  the 
window.  The  girl,  whose  hot  hands  shook  on  her 
knees,  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  the  helpless  tears 
coursing  down  her  cheeks,  and  a  miserable 
wonder  at  her  own  physical  weakness  making 
the  wretchedness  worse.  Presently  Mrs.  Trelyon 
drew  out  her  watch. 

"Rosalie,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  of  anguish, 
"  you  have  got  in  this  moment  to  crush  down  all 
your  superfine  feeling.  You  have  to  regard  this 
offer  as  a  hair- breadth  escape  —  a  hair-breadth 
escape,  I  repeat.  Once  more  believe  me  that 
there  is  no  other  way  of  saving  yourself  but  by 
following  my  directions  without  inquiry.  The 
time  is  getting  on.  Make  the  best  of  the  mo- 
ments that  remain.  Go  to  your  room  and  change 
your  dress.  I  will  excuse  you  to  him  for  your  dis- 
ordered condition ;  there  shall  be  no  difficulty." 

"  Mother !  You  reckon  without  me.  I  will 
not  and  dare  not  deceive  him  !  " 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause,  during  which  the 
figure  at  the  window  stood  perfectly  still,  and 
Rosalie  waited.  Then  her  mother  turned  round 
slowly,  and  the  eyes  in  the  marble-white  face 
sought  the  girl  out  as  slowly  and  laid  themselves 
upon  her  and  held  her.  Rosalie  felt  herself  drawn 
376 


Cold  Winter. 

upright  in  the  chair  by  the  look,  and  her  own 
eyes  widened  and  fixed  in  the  terror  of  her  spirit. 
She  would  have  spoken,  but  her  lips  could  not 
move.  Mrs.  Trelyon  advanced ;  she  trod  wearily 
and  with  a  broken  air  towards  her  daughter,  but 
there  was  that  in  her  face  to  make  the  girl  shrink 
and  hold  her  hand  up  as  though  to  defend  her- 
self from  a  blow.  When  she  was  close  she 
stooped  and  whispered. 

"Oh,  no  !  "  said  the  girl,  with  a  stare  of  incred- 
ulous and  innocent  surprise. 

Mrs.  Trelyon  returned  to  the  window,  and 
Rosalie  followed  her  movements  with  the  same 
suspended  stare.  Her  mother  seemed  unable  to 
utter  a  further  remark ;  she  saw  her  standing 
against  the  pane  in  the  fast  fading  light,  and 
slowly  the  whispered  words  dropped  from  her  ear 
down  to  her  inmost  apprehension  and  laid  hold 
of  it.  Then  something  burst  suddenly  over  her 
face,  and  she  trembled  so  that  she  had  to  grasp 
the  arms  of  the  chair  with  her  hands. 

"It  isn't  true!"  she  whispered  in  piteous 
terror. 

"  Is  n't  it?  "  said  Mrs.  Trelyon,  brokenly. 

"  But  I  'm  not  that  sort  of  woman.  It  is  hor- 
rible —  horrible  to  me.  God  would  n't  be  so 
cruel !  "  cried  the  girl. 

"  God! "  repeated  Mrs.  Trelyon,  in  such  an 
accent  that  the  room  shrivelled  beneath  it. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  faltered  Rosalie  ;  "  it  could  n't 
happen."  377 


Life  the  Accuser. 

«  Could rit\\.t" 

"  Show  some  pity  !  " 

"I  can't,  Rosalie.  My  heart  is  too  sick  and 
dried  up.  But  I  mean  to  save  you.  Have  I 
fought  with  facts  and  put  seeming  in  their  place  all 
my  life  for  nothing?  Trust  to  me.  The  time  is 
slipping  away;  get  up  and  take  that  hat  off  and 
bathe  your  eyes.  Young  Dayntree  will  be  here 
directly." 

Rosalie  gave  a  cry. 

"  Hush ! "  said  Mrs.  Trelyon,  stamping  her 
foot. 

"  Oh,  it  has  n't  happened  !  Please,  mother, 
don't  say  it.  I  never  thought " 

"  No  ?  This  all  comes  of  leaving  your  edu- 
cation to  a  man.  He  fed  you  on  principles  and 
fine  feeling." 

"Don't!  Oh,  my  father!"  The  girl  slid 
from  her  chair  and  crouched  and  shivered. 

"Get  up  !  "  commanded  Mrs.  Trelyon,  this  time 
in  a  sharp  whisper ;  "  you  must  see  young  Dayn- 
tree. I  cannot  manage  him  alone." 

"  Oh,  mother  !  mother  !  mother  !  "  cried  the 
girl,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  on  the  floor. 

"  Show  some  spirit,"  said  Mrs.  Trelyon,  des- 
perately ;  "  run  to  your  room  and  ring  for  your 
maid." 

She  moaned  for  answer,  with  her  head  on  the 
seat  of  the  chair  and  her  limbs  trailing.  This 
physical  collapse  seemed  to  frenzy  Mrs.  Trelyon. 
378 


Cold  Winter. 

The  one  course  to  her  was  the  obvious  course, 
and  all  that  was  wanted  was  the  rally  of  the  will 
to  the  moment.  Time  was  precious ;  yet  here  the 
girl  lay  blenched  and  prone  !  How  was  she  to 
lend  her  a  spark  of  her  own  audacity  ? 

"  Must  I  —  shake  you  !  "  muttered  she,  turning 
from  the  window  with  her  fists  clenched ;  "  at  this 
moment  he  is  coming." 

Then  Rosalie  suddenly  did  pull  herself  together ; 
she  rose  and  stood  on  the  hearth,  grasping  the 
mantelpiece  for  support. 

"  You  are  asking  me  to  marry  him  —  now  ?  " 
asked  she,  in  appalled  reproach. 

"  Rosalie  !  you  are  mad  to  waste  time  in  argu- 
ing !  Don't  you  see  that  there  is  no  question 
about  it  —  no  other  way  out  of  disgrace?  You 
have  to  do  it." 

"Disgrace!"  cried  the  girl.  "That  may  be. 
But  so  deep  —  never  !  never  !  never  !  "  She 
lifted  up  her  hand.  "  I  swear  that  I  will  never 
do  this  deed." 

Mrs.  Trelyon,  with  a  despairing  exclamation, 
turned  back  to  the  window.  A  pause,  broken  only 
by  Rosalie's  sobbing  breaths,  fell  between  them. 

"  Rosalie,"  came  her  mother's  voice  presently, 
cold  and  dry  and  hard,  "  if  you  decline  my  ad- 
vice, what  then  is  your  intention?  " 

"You  cast  me  off?  I  know  it  by  your  tone. 
Then  one  thing  you  must  answer.  Who  is  my 
father?" 

379 


Life  the  Accuser. 

She  spoke  firmly.  She  was  met  by  silence. 
During  that  silence  Mrs.  Trelyon  rapidly  reflected. 
A  dreadful  tenseness  was  between  the  two ;  the 
resolution  of  the  physically  enfeebled  girl  was  not 
to  be  shaken  by  persuasion  and  advice ;  she  leapt 
to  fact  for  her  next  weapon. 

"  Not  Mr.  Trelyon,"  said  she,  in  a  low  whisper. 

The  truth  known,  yet  never  so  spoken,  forced 
a  sigh  from  Rosalie's  lips. 

"Why  then  did  he  love  me?"  asked  she,  with 
mournful  regret. 

"  In  his  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Trelyon,  "  he  con- 
nected you  with  a  man  —  a  friend  —  to  whom  at 
one  time  he  owed  a  debt  of  gratitude,  and  for 
whom  he  nourished  a  deep  affection.  Mr.  Trelyon 
always  touched  matters  in  an  unaccountable  way. 
When  he  discovered  you  were  not  his  own  child, 
he  made  certain  conditions  with  me,  cut  the  man 
in  private,  and  never  spoke  or  wrote  to  him  again. 
Then  he  carried  you  off  abroad  and  brought  you 
up  as  his  own  daughter." 

"  Oh,  the  portrait  !  "  cried  Rosalie,  upon  whose 
beaten  face  a  little  joy  began  again  to  dawn ; 
"  I  understand  it  now.  This  miniature  "  —  she 
pointed  at  the  two  portraits  on  the  wall  — 
"  which  my  adopted  father  bade  me  keep !  I 
know  who  he  is  —  his  name,  his  home.  Mr. 
Trelyon  talked  to  me  of  him;  he  bade  me  love 
and  honour  him.  He  said  there  had  been  wrong 
in  his  life,  but  that  there  were  excuses.  He  is 
380 


Cold  Winter. 

a  father  to  be  proud  of.  He  is  still  alive.  I 
am  not  alone.  Mother  !  why  have  you  concealed 
it  from  me?  Thank  you  at  last." 

She  rose  and  looked  towards  the  figure  at  the 
window,  stretching  both  hands  a  little,  her  face 
subdued.  And  once  more  she  received  the  hor- 
rifying impression  that  the  shoulders  beneath  the 
draggled  shawl  bent  and  shook  as  under  a  load 
of  shame  and  woe.  The  little  joy  died  out  of 
her  eyes. 

"  At  least  bear  me  witness,"  said  Mrs.  Trelyon 
presently,  in  a  voice  washed  by  wild,  silent  weep- 
ing, "  that  I  have  done  my  best  to  save  you." 

"  I  think,"  said  Rosalie,  gently,  "  you  did  not 
understand  me.  You  shut  me  up,  or  tried  to  — 
if  that  was  your  best." 

"  If  some  one  had  done  that  for  me  ! "  cried 
Mrs.  Trelyon,  with  a  lifted  hand. 

"  It  was  not  my  adopted  father's  way." 

"  Ah  !  Mr.  Trelyon  ?  No.  It  was  not  his  way. 
But  I  had  a  deeper  knowledge  than  his." 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Rosalie,  "  that  is  not  so.  I  was 
safe  with  him.  What  is  not  wretched  of  me,  I 
owe  to  him.  I  still,  perhaps,  shall  find  a  portion 
left." 

"But  what  do  you  intend?"  cried  Mrs. 
Trelyon,  rapidly.  "  Assure  me  of  this,  Rosalie  ! 
Tell  me  that  you  do  not  really  contemplate  going 
there?" 

"It,  was  Mr.  Trelyon's  wish." 


Life  the  Accuser. 

The  mother,  desperate,  stood  like  a  thing  at 
bay. 

"In  your  present  plight?"  said  she,  in  a 
dreadful  voice. 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  But  surely  my  father  will 
help  me." 

"  Cease  your  madness.  Rosalie  !  I  advise  you 
for  both  our  sakes  —  you  are  beginning  to  anger 
me  —  I  advise  you  not  to  press  me  further,  but 
to  yield.  Already  Mr.  Dayntree  must  be  at 
hand." 

Again  she  drew  out  her  watch ;  again  Rosalie's 
mind  shook  between  terror  and  longing  at  the 
thought  of  the  lover  who  footed  her  world ; 
again  she  gathered  her  own  resolution  about  her 
as  the  single  armour  against  despair. 

"The  anguish  is  not  there"  said  she,  speaking 
to  her  own  mind;  "it  lies  in  his  presence." 

The  watch  ticked  on  in  Mrs.  Trelyon's  palm ; 
her  eyes  full  of  desperation  followed  the  hands 
and  not  her  face. 

"  It  is  half-past  five,"  said  she ;  "  you  have 
still  time.  Be  once  more  warned.  Believe  me  ! 
Believe  me  !  You  have  got  to  yield,  or  you  will  rue 
it  for  a  lifetime." 

"This  much  of  worth  is  left  in  me,"  cried  the 
girl,  in  a  voice  of  awful  reproach,  "  that  I  will 
never  marry  or  deceive  Evan  Dayntree  ! " 

"  Be  warned.     Ring  for  your  maid." 

"  You  will  not  help  me  !  I  am  very  forlorn. 
382 


Cold  Winter. 

Out  of  your  past  have  you  nothing  to  give  me  ? 
My  heart  faints  when  I  think  of  Evan  Dayntree. 
I  will  not  wrong  him." 

"You  refuse — finally?     After  my  warning?  " 

"I  refuse." 

"What  shall  you  do?" 

"  I  shall  go  to  my  father.  I  will  throw  myself 
at  his  feet.  I  did  not  know  life  had  such  horrors. 
Surely  a  man  will  forgive  !  " 

"  A  man !  You  baby  of  a  girl !  A  man 
forgive!" 

The  girl  took  one  step  to  the  door.  Mrs. 
Trelyon  turned  and  looked  at  her  again.  There 
was  a  desperate  threat  in  the  eyes  that  shocked 
and  startled  Rosalie  afresh,  and  again  she  shrank 
back  to  her  seat  on  the  chair  by  the  hearth. 
Her  mother  left  her  position  by  the  window  and 
once  more  moved  towards  her,  but  this  time  her 
step  was  swift  and  her  eyes  full  of  resolution. 

"I  would  have  spared  you,"  said  she,  standing 
over  the  shrinking  girl  and  speaking  in  a  tone- 
less voice ;  "  but  you  are  cruel  to  me.  Why 
not  let  it  suffice  that  I  tell  you  I  have  bitten  the 
dust?  We  are  two  wretched  women  together 
and  you  don't  see  it.  As  the  world  sees  things 
—  or  calls  things,  for  the  world  is  a  hypocrite  — 
you  and  I  are  wrong  in  the  very  roots  of  our 
nature.  To  look  back,  it  seems  so  inexplicable, 
doesn't  it?  —  so  momentary — as  though  it  wasn't 
exactly  oneself?  But  as  the  world  takes  things, 

383 


Life  the  Accuser. 

you  and  I  were  made  wrong  throughout.  I  don't 
see  how  we  could  help  it.  God  made  us,  too. 
You  think  me  hard,  yet  I  have  sheltered  you 
from  the  truth.  There  isn't  much  tenderness  in 
me,  but  surely  in  this  I  have  been  tender?  Do 
you  insist  ?  Very  well ;  I  see  you  do.  On  me 
you  have  no  mercy;  you  tear  the  truth  out  of 
your  mother's  heart.  Here  is  the  truth.  No 
one,  save  Mr.  Trelyon,  supposed  that  friend  of 
his  to  be  the  father  of  my  child.  Mr.  Trelyon 
was  the  one  genuinely  deceived  person;  others 
permitted  themselves  to  be  deceived.  If  this 
present  scandal  comes  out,  the  old  one  is  re- 
vived, recalled.  But  if  you  go  to  my  husband's 
friend,  my  disgrace  is  proved.  Will  he  forgive 
me  for  the  rupture  with  my  husband  —  for  the 
life-long  delusion  I  permitted  my  husband  to 
retain  ?  He  will  be  the  first  to  repudiate  you  — 
and  me.  And  who  is  your  father?  You  ask  it. 
Rosalie?  You  dare  to  ask?  Ah,  well !  If  indeed 
—  white,  beaten  thing  though  you  are! — you 
will  insist!  Truth  you  keep  asking  for — as 
though  it  might  be  of  use.  Truth  then  you  shall 
have.  My  husband,  the  Honourable  Leonard 
Trelyon,  trusted  me  too  much,  Rosalie;  he  mis- 
read me  altogether;  he  wearied  me  with  exalted 
notions,  he  left  me  too  much  to  myself.  And 

your  father,  my  poor    girl,  your   father  was 

the     groom,  —  a    bold,     devil-may-care     sort    of 

man,   handsome,   and     of    gypsy   extraction ;    he 

384 


Cold  Winter. 

had  a  passion  for  horses,  and  he  was  a  splendid 
rider;  but  that,  with  his  looks,  was  his  only 
distinction." 

The  girl  shrank  back  in  her  chair  in  a  stricken 
sort  of  way,  and  closed  her  lids  in  defence 
against  her  mother's  eyes ;  the  toneless  voice  did 
not  stop. 

"  You  have  forced  the  truth  from  my  heart  of 
hearts  where  I  have  hidden  it  with  skill  and  care 
for  years,  seizing  chance  after  chance  as  it  offered. 
And  is  the  truth  the  least  good  now  you  know  it? 
I  would  have  gone  on  sheltering  you,  but  you 
have  been  cruel  to  me.  You  will  be  cruel  no 
longer?  Say  that  you  will  not  betray  me." 

She  brought  her  speech  to  a  close,  and  Rosalie, 
hearing  the  voice  stop,  thrust  a  hand  out  blindly, 
as  though  in  a  feeble  effort  to  push  her  mother 
aside. 

"  Let  me  breathe,"  said  she. 

Mrs.  Trelyon  retreated  a  step,  and  stood  eyeing 
her  anxiously. 

"A  groom,"  murmured  the  girl,  "a  groom, 
you  say  ?  Ah  !  why  not  ?  I  seem  to  understand 
a  few  things  now  that  were  dark.  Alas,  poor 
Rosalie  !  " 

She  still  did  not  open  her  eyes ;  she  lifted  her 
face,  with  the  lids  shut,  turning  it  slowly  upward. 

"  A  groom,"  said  she  again. 

Mrs.  Trelyon  watched  with  suspended  breath. 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  girl,  still  with  closed 
25  385 


Life  the  Accuser. 

eyes,  and  her  hands  now  a  little  stretched  out  on 
either  side  of  her ;  "  I  too  was  just  a  blind  worm. 
But  when  we  are  so  blind,  are  we  so  punished?  " 

The  mother,  drenched  with  wretchedness,  opened 
her  lips  and  closed  them  again. 

"Mother?" 

"Yes?     Oh,  what?" 

"  Tell  me  !  Perhaps  —  it  is  possible  —  my 
father,  the  groom,  had  at  least  the  attribute  of 
honesty?" 

"  What  is  it,  child  !  Yes,  he  was  honest  —  with 
a  purse,  not  a  woman.  Yes;  he  was  passably 
honest." 

Rosalie  opened  her  eyes,  and  rose  unsteadily 
from  her  seat.  A  silken  tie  lay  on  a  table,  where 
she-  had  thrown  it.  She  took  it  up  absently,  and 
placed  it  about  her  throat,  and  then  she  began  to 
draw  on  her  gloves.  Mrs.  Trelyon  watched  with 
stealthy,  perplexed  glances.  The  core  of  the  girl 
to  the  end  was  an  enigma. 

"  Thinking  me  his  friend's  child,  he  made  me 
his  heiress,"  Rosalie  murmured,  in  a  deeply  re- 
flective tone. 

"Yes,"  whispered  Mrs.  Trelyon,  eagerly.  "Oh, 
Rosalie  !  Have  I  not  done  my  best  for  you?  " 

The  girl  turned  her  face  to  the  miniature  por- 
traits of  Mr.  Trelyon  and  his  friend.  She  touched 
her  lips  with  her  fingers. 

"  Dear  father  of  my  best  part  —  I  remember  !  " 
said  she ;  and  she  moved  to  the  door. 
386 


Cold  Winter. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Mrs.  Trelyon, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  will  try  and  emulate  — my  father,  the  groom's 
—  one  virtue,"  whispered  the  girl,  with  faint  dry 
lips. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  whispered  Mrs. 
Trelyon. 

Her  fingers  were  on  the  handle  of  the  door; 
she  looked  back,  with  eyes  to  remember  for  a 
lifetime. 

"  To  try  and  be  —  '  passably  honest,'  "  said 
she. 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  and  through  the 
passage,  walking  as  an  invalid  walks,  tottering  a 
little,  with  her  hands  stretched  on  either  side,  to 
guide  and  support  herself  by  the  walls.  Miss 
Glynn  opened  a  door,  and  stretched  her  neck  and 
peeped  out  with  small,  round,  scandal- mongering 
eyes,  and  a  mouth  greedy  of  gossip.  The  look  on 
the  girl's  face  drove  her  back. 


387 


Life  the  Accuser. 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  MAN'S  repentance  does  not  necessarily  make 
at  once  for  peace ;  on  the  contrary,  the  path  after- 
wards usually  begins  to  be  undividedly  thorny. 
For  while  the  sense-pleasing  flowers  of  erratic 
indulgence  are  mown  down,  the  seeds  of  other 
blooms  are  scarcely  sown. 

Norman's  last  interview  with  Rosalie  Trelyon 
had  brought  him  neither  inward  satisfaction  nor 
other  sense  of  relief.  He  was  even  unable  to 
shake  from  his  mind  an  impression  of  malicious 
treachery  in  the  guidance  of  what  had  appeared 
his  best  instinct  of  right  action.  Looking  back,  as 
it  were,  over  the  shoulder  of  his  mind,  he  found 
the  way  cut  sheer  off  behind,  while  that  in  front 
was  neither  straight  nor  plain.  His  steps  seemed 
to  stray  indefinitely,  and  he  bitterly  experienced 
the  truth  that  right,  when  once  a  man  has  been 
greatly  wrong,  becomes  impossible ;  for  conduct 
is  as  a  mirror  in  a  room  of  varied  contents,  and 
reflects  not  only  the  goodly  thing  we  would  place 
in  the  centre,  but  the  settled  squalor  of  the  back- 
ground. 

388 


Cold  Winter. 

He  found  this  out,  for  example,  when  he  strove 
to  open  the  subject  of  his  break  with  Rosalie  to 
his  wife.  In  speech  the  baser  material  rises  like 
scum  to  the  top,  and  sincerer  emotions  are  apt  to 
drop  out  of  sight.  It  would  be  more  manageable 
if  Constantia  would  but  make  an  inquiry  !  If  she 
would  utter  a  remark  to  which  his  tongue  could 
respond  —  some  complaint  which  marital  affection 
could  meet ! 

"  Dearest !  be  comforted.  It  is  over.  I  have 
returned." 

The  vague  fall  of  restrained  phrases  of  repent- 
ance and  love  suited  the  fastidious  taste,  which 
shrank,  above  all  things,  from  exaggeration  and 
grimace.  But  Constantia  made  no  sign.  Her 
face  remained  set  to  its  own  thought  —  a  waiting 
face  he  sometimes  found  it,  as  though  aware  of 
the  crisis  hidden  in  all  culminating  events.  Striv- 
ing to  shake  this  significant  passivity  into  a  ripple 
of  action  by  delivering  himself  of  his  fact,  he  would 
bring  it  to  shape  upon  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  but 
could  never  carry  it  further. 

"  My  dear,"  it  would  run  in  the  region  of  his 
mind,  "  I  have,  entirely  for  your  sake,  as  a  vindi- 
cation of  your  hurt  feeling,  discarded  my  mistress. 
If  it  is  possible  for  us  to  begin  afresh,  I  have  made 
the  way  clear." 

The  crimson  flew  to  his  brow  as  he  turned  his 
sentences.  Day  by  day  he  came  home,  resolved 
within  himself  to  break  that  evening  the  hardening 
389 


Life  the  Accuser. 

silence  which  lay  between  them,  and  day  by  day, 
fidgeting  with  his  paper,  while  Constantia  sat  grave 
and  reticent  upon  his  hearth,  he  found  that  the 
opening  of  his  lips  was  stayed. 

In  the  world  things  were  perhaps  better  —  save 
that  Evan  was  going.  Since  that  night  when 
Evan  had  chosen  to  speak  his  mind  upon  affairs 
that  did  not  concern  him,  there  had  been  reserve 
between  them.  But  where  fellowship  is  founded 
upon  deep  affection,  a  misunderstanding,  the 
offence  even  of  blame,  only  avails  to  temporarily 
ruffle  its  peace.  Evan,  however,  was  passing  from 
his  guidance  into  schemes  and  successes  of  his 
own.  Norman  felt  that  some  of  the  loneliness 
which  accompanies  increasing  years  was  meeting 
him,  and  that  age  would  not  bring  honour,  and 
that  hope  was  ebbing  away. 

For  the  rest,  the  worry  of  the  Armstrong  prop- 
erty, which  had  been  so  detestable  a  complication 
in  his  life,  was  clearing.  Old  John  Armstrong  had 
been  summoned  to  The  Court  as  confidential 
adviser,  and  under  his  vigorous  treatment  the  air 
was  purged.  The  Court  would  probably  be  put  up 
to  auction  —  Edward  and  Gilbert  would  certainly 
be  removed  from  the  neighbourhood.  So  far  this 
was  to  the  good.  But  the  dregs,  as  of  an  un- 
savoury drink,  lay  in  his  soul.  And  he  hated  to 
think  of  the  shut  averted  face  of  his  once  innocent 
adorer,  Eliza.  The  face  was  growing  to  be,  he 
sometimes  remarked,  like  the  sensitive  profile 
39° 


Cold  Winter. 

sketch  of  a  saint  in  an  old  picture,  and  he  was 
pained  tha.t  it  should  shrink  and  close  before  him, 
not  because  he  was  a  vain  man,  —  the  build  of  his 
mind  and  character  was  on  lines  too  strong  for 
that,  —  but  because  such  an  attitude  touched  warn- 
ingly  on  that  portion  of  his  being  which  warred 
against  the  effective  finish  of  his  grosser  works. 
On  the  other  hand  had  been  the  familiar  and 
odious  pretension  of  Edward.  The  latter  lurked 
about  the  place,  ready  to  button-hole  him  with 
hints  and  attempted  encroachment.  He  had 
wondered  how  long  he  should  restrain  his  wrath, 
how  long  he  should  be  able  to  retain  the  bearing 
of  formal  courtesy  in  which  he  knew,  better  than 
most  men,  to  intermingle  the  baffling  element 
of  contempt.  But  with  the  advent  of  old  John, 
this  swarming  of  the  gnats  of  lesser  misery  was 
swept  away,  and  he  was  left  to  the  greater  and 
more  solemn  aspect  of  the  tragedy  of  his  own 
creation.  Not  that  he  at  present  recognised  its 
quality,  for  it  is  the  part  of  humanity  to  act  without 
cognisance  of  the  conditions,  and  to  continually 
set  the  hand  to  a  treaty  of  which  it  does  not  know 
the  terms.  Constantia  alone,  in  her  manifest  suf- 
fering and  the  intensity  of  her  silence,  stood  as  it 
were  for  the  wrath  of  God  before  him  ;  otherwise 
the  matter  remained  for  him  as  a  tiresome  trivi- 
ality ;  and  as  time  went  on,  and  speech  continued 
to  hang  before  him  as  an  inaccessible  steep,  only 
to  be  attempted  by  sweating  effort,  he  began  to 


Life  the  Accuser. 

relapse  into  an  attitude  of  patience,  of  that  patience 
which  draws  idle  hope  to  the  tail  of  it.  Time,  he 
thought,  might  even  cover  the  rent  with  tender 
mosses  ;  and  —  above  all  —  there  were  always  the 
children.  For  example,  on  this  still,  cold  frosty 
evening,  who,  intruding  casually  into  the  drawing- 
room,  would  dream  but  that  the  home  was  a  nest 
of  peace?  He  was  there  with  Constantia,  and 
Ted  was  the  third  presence.  As  usual,  Norman 
was  occupied  with  the  evening  papers,  but,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  was  not  reading.  Ted  sat  on  a  low 
stool  by  the  hearth,  tracing  the  lines  of  his  book 
with  his  ringer,  and  whispering  the  words  to  him- 
self as  he  read.  Ted  was  no  bookworm,  but 
when  it  was  necessary  to  be  "  a  quiet  boy,"  this 
was  usually  his  method.  Constantia  sat  at  a  work- 
table,  not  so  far  off;  the  little  whisper  of  the  child, 
engrossed  in  his  story,  made  a  pleasant  murmur. 
Norman's  eyes  rested  now  and  again  on  the  curly 
head.  Yes  :  he  was  glad  of  the  children ;  fingers 
like  that  weaved  up  the  breaches  between  parents. 
"  In  time,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  in  time." 
A  servant  entered  the  room  and  carried  a  letter 
to  his  mistress.  Norman  returned  to  his  paper, 
and  Constantia  opened  the  envelope.  There  was 
a  long  interval,  and  then  he  heard  her  in  an 
intensely  weary  but  gentle  tone  bid  the  child 
retire.  The  ways  of  Ted  were  always  interesting  ; 
Norman  glanced  over  the  edge  of  his  paper  to  see 
how  he  would  evade  the  order.  The  curly  head 
392 


Cold  Winter. 

was  not  lifted,  but  the  finger  was  arrested  on  its 
journey  along  the  line. 

"It  isn't  time  yet,"  he  began. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Mother,  I  'm  so  comfy  here." 

"Are  you,  dear?  But  then  you  must  go  to 
bed." 

"I  '11  just  do  half  a  page  more.  The  Brownies 
are  not  being  kind  to  the  little  toad.  I  have  to 
see  if  it  gets  off  safe." 

"Very  well,  dear.  Just  half  the  page  then," 
said  she,  gently. 

The  whispering  began  again  —  a  little  hurriedly 
this  time.  Norman  returned  to  his  paper.  Con- 
stantia's  needle  was  however  still,  and  presently 
she  spoke  again. 

"Ted  !  you  are  going  on  beyond  the  half-page." 

"  You  see,  mother,  so  has  the  toad  too ;  it 's 
gone  into  the  next  chapter." 

"  But  you  must  go  to  bed  now,  dear." 

"  Oh,  mother  !  " 

"Yes,  Ted." 

Ted  shut  the  book  and  got  up  and  sidled  to  her 
knee. 

"  Shall  you  come  and  kiss  me  when  I  'm  in 
bed?" 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  mummy,  I  do  love  you  !  What 's  in  that 
nice  little  box?  Mayn't  I  open  it?  " 

"  Only  sewing-silk,  dear." 
393 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"Oh,  well!  I'd  better  look.  I  like  the 
colours." 

"  Very  well,  Ted.     Only  be  a  little  quick." 

Her  cheek  was  unaccountably  white,  but  the 
voice  that  had  sheltered  him  all  his  life  was  the 
same,  and  he  did  not  notice.  He  leaned  up 
against  her  and  opened  the  box,  and  dropped  all 
the  silks  on  the  floor. 

"  There,  Ted  !  You  Ve  tumbled  mother's  silks 
down." 

Norman  laughed  slily  behind  his  paper. 

"  Mummy,  I  do  love  you,  and  I  'm  so  sorry.  I  'm 
going  to  pick  them  all  up.  Will  they  be  spoiled  ?  " 

"  No,  Ted ;  oh,  no  !  " 

He  scrambled  about  under  the  table,  and  picked 
them  up  and  placed  them  one  by  one  in  the  box. 
The  operation  took  time.  Constantia  put  her  arm 
about  him  and  drew  him  towards  her. 

"  Don't  call  me  to-night,"  she  whispered.  "  I 
promise  to  come  and  kiss  you  when  you  are  asleep. 
Only  don't  call  me.  Do  you  mind,  Ted?  " 

The  eyes  which  were  searching  about  over  the 
table  for  something  for  the  hand  to  pounce  upon, 
suddenly  turned  to  her  face  and  looked  into  it. 
There  was  that  in  it  which  he  found  unaccountable 
and  new ;  the  cheek,  for  example,  was  pale.  He 
put  up  his  hand  with  a  puzzled  look  and  stroked  it. 
His  eyes  answered  hers. 

"  I  'm  disappointed,"  said  he,  "  but  of  course  I 
don't  mind.     I  won't  call." 
394 


Cold  Winter. 

His  arms  tightened  round  her  neck  in  his  kiss, 
and  then  he  said  good-night  to  his  father  and 
walked  out  of  the  room.  Norman  had  heard  the 
talk,  had  received  the  child's  kiss,  as  one  hears 
and  feels  things  in  a  half-sleeping  condition ;  there 
always  was  a  good  deal  of  conversation  before  Ted 
could  be  induced  to  retire  to  his  room,  and  just 
for  the  moment  he  was  interested  in  his  paper. 
After  a  short  interval  he  was  roused  by  his  wife's 
voice  calling  him  by  name ;  it  was  months  since 
he  had  heard  her  say  it  in  that  low  tender  tone. 
He  dropped  his  paper  and  turned  round  on  the 
sofa  in  amazement,  drawing  himself  up  from  his 
lounging  position. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  and  felt  his  heart  beating. 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  her  eyes  full  of  a 
great  pity,  and  she  held  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Something  very  dreadful  has  happened,"  said 
she  ;  "  this  is  from  Evan." 

He  got  up  and  walked  quickly  forwards  and 
took  it  from  her  hand.  Not  for  one  moment  did 
he  guess  the  nature  of  the  communication.  She 
covered  her  face  while  he  read. 

The  letter  simply  told  them,  in  short,  rough,  ter- 
ribly clear  sentences,  the  two  sides  of  Rosalie's 
story,  —  her  statements  as  regards  her  parentage, 
her  abandonment  of  her  home,  and  lastly  her 
piteous  hints  as  to  herself. 

"  You  see,"  ran  the  latter  portion,  "  that  the 
reason  I  know  is  that  I  was  last  night  on  my  way 
395 


Life  the  Accuser. 

to  South  Downs.  I  was  near  the  lodge  when  I 
chanced  to  meet  Eliza;  we  stopped  for  one  mo- 
ment to  speak,  when  we  heard  some  one  come 
stumbling  and  running,  and  Rosalie  broke  in  upon 
us.  She  was  very  ill  and  stricken.  We  took  her 
to  my  lodgings  in  the  village ;  Eliza  stays ;  I  have 
a  room  elsewhere.  Constantia,  surely  you  can 
help  her?  Won't  you  come?  Rosalie  made  Eliza 
tell  me  last  night,  not  only  the  truth  concerning 
her  parentage,  but  that  about  herself.  I  know 
nothing  beyond  the  bare  fact.  Eliza  may  know 
more  —  there  is  a  scare  in  her  eyes  —  but  she  will 
not  speak.  I  asked  for  Rosalie  to  be  my  wife,  you 
understand.  I  was  coming  for  my  answer.  This 
was  my  answer.  But  she  is  my  wife,  she  lies  too 
deep  in  my  heart  for  me  to  doubt  it.  I  was  think- 
ing and  hoping  for  my  marriage ;  but  I  fear  she 
will  die.  She  is  stricken.  She  sends  me  no  mes- 
sage but  this  :  '  God  thank  you.  But  no  !  I  am 
broken.'  Constantia,  come  and  bring  her  comfort." 
Silence  deep  as  death  was  in  the  room.  But 
over  the  soul  of  Norman  the  truth  broke  in  thun- 
ders. What  need  for  speech  when  circumstance 
the  Accuser  uttered  its  word  for  him? 


396 


Cold  Winter. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  I  AM  the  man." 

Norman  dispatched  his  brief  note  to  Evan,  and 
then  awaited  the  event,  but  it  was  some  time  be- 
fore he  realised  in  what  kind  his  dues  would  reach 
him.  One's  worst  deeds,  repented  of,  at  least 
claim  to  be  avenged  in  noise  and  colour.  But  as 
the  days  dawned  and  the  days  set,  each  one  pre- 
sented a  blank.  He  heard  nothing ;  News,  that 
through  his  life  had  blown  her  trumpet  close  to 
his  ear,  turned  the  other  way.  Presently,  however, 
straws,  birds  of  the  air,  the  lips  of  a  child  carried 
him  something. 

"  Mother,  Lady  Susanna  gave  a  children's  party 
last  week ;  why  did  n't  I  go  ?  "  asked  Ted. 

"  Why  do  not  people  call?  "  asked  Connie,  home 
for  a  half-term  holiday,  when  the  reception  day 
passed  unmarked. 

The  eyes  of  the  husband  and  wife  avoided  each 
other,  but  thoughts  pierced  either  heart. 

Then  he  found  that  the  first-class  carriage  in 

which  he  travelled  to  town  was  deserted;   they 

were  men  of  the  world  who  thus  left  him  alone, 

and,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  he  opined  that  it  was 

397 


Life  the  Accuser. 

not  so  much  that  they  had  no  palliation  or  excuse 
to  offer,  as  that  something  in  the  mode  with  which 
the  thing  was  rumoured  to  have  been  managed, 
struck  them  as  awry,  and  that  they  fought  shy  in 
their  busy  days  of  mixing  themselves  up  with  so 
complicated  a  bit  of  gossip.  The  situation  was 
not  unmingled  by  drops  of  galHng  humour ;  one 
day  Mr.  Woodruff,  the  rector,  stepping  into  a 
waiting-room  in  which  he  happened  to  stand 
alone,  retreated  hastily  and  obviously ;  on  a  near 
occasion  Mr.  Woodruff's  curate,  a  small  man  with 
pale  eyes  and  faint  whiskers,  took  the  opportun- 
ity of  very  sincerely  posing  as  "  the  minister  of 
Christ,"  and  approached  him  as  he  stood  isolated 
on  the  platform  to  ostentatiously  offer  his  hand. 
It  is  bitter  when  the  Church  avoids  the  sinner ;  it 
is  also  bitter  when  it  too  publicly  protects  him. 

This  was,  however,  the  lesser  part  of  the  cup 
of  humiliation,  and  for  Constantia's  sake  Norman 
held  his  head  erect  as  he  drank  it.  The  dregs 
lay  in  Evan's  silence.  He  was  slow  to  realise 
the  strong  and  simple  abstention ;  it  was  the  fall 
of  the  general  silence  that  first  discovered  to  him 
how  Circumstance  dropped  him  from  the  calcu- 
lation, —  how  he,  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  disas- 
trous business,  was  plucked  out  of  it  and  thrown 
aside.  These  matters  were  his  own,  but  while 
strangers  handled  them,  no  one  carried  a  hint  his 
way.  Could  he  but  learn  a  word  of  Evan  !  Day 
by  day,  entering  his  office,  he  threw  a  longing 
398 


Cold  Winter. 

glance  at  his  clerks,  knowing  them  the  reposito- 
ries of  information  hidden  from  himself;  but  his 
entrance  was  the  signal  to  bend  over  work  in  a 
frenzy  of  occupation,  and  by  the  present  flight  of 
pens  he  could  but  surmise  the  babble  of  irrever- 
ent talk  they  dispersed.  One  day  —  the  days 
dragged  on,  though  time  itself  seemed  at  a  stand- 
still —  the  head  clerk  came  into  his  private  room 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him ;  his  nervous 
manner  proclaimed  that  at  least  tidings  were 
being  carried.  Norman  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
level  of  his  neck-cloth,  and  the  clerk  plunged. 

"Your  application  for  shares,  sir,  in  the  Suez 
expedition  is  disallowed." 

"Is  the  list  closed?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Who  took  up  the  last  shares?" 

"  Lord  Warrenne." 

"You  can  go." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  Lord 
Warrenne  had  drawn  his  hat  over  his  eyes  when 
their  carriages  had  accidentally  met  on  the  com- 
mon. But  the  recollection  of  that  was  not  the  cut 
of  the  moment  to  Norman.  It  lay  in  the  realisa*- 
tion  of  the  depth  of  Evan's  silence.  Undoubt- 
edly the  young  engineer's  influence  had  debarred 
him  from  even  the  ordinary  shareholder's  oppor- 
tunity ;  in  the  silence  with  which  he  had  met  the 
confession  he  intended  to  sail  from  England,  and 
in  that  silence  he  would  continue  through  life. 
399 


Life  the  Accuser. 

Norman  kept  his  hands  over  his  face;  his  very 
soul  sighed  and  sighed.  One  measures  depth  by 
stillness.  There  are  hurts  between  friends  that 
bring  storms  and  thunder-claps  of  words ;  it  seems 
a  wrecking  affair;  but  presently  the  atmosphere 
opens  and  the  friendship  has  weathered  it;  the 
vessels  sail  on  clearer  seas  and  signal  shining 
lights  of  constancy  one  to  another.  But  silence 
after  a  hurt  shows  that  the  bottom  is  knocked  out, 
and  that  friendship  has  floundered  with  its  freight. 
Norman  knew  it  was  for  life. 

But  in  other  ways  news  would  surely  reach  him? 
Rosalie,  for  example.  He  had  no  tenderness  over 
her  in  his  heart  even  now,  but  the  wounds  of  con- 
ventional honour  made  him  writhe.  Behind,  the 
days  were  warm  between  them,  and  the  world 
guessed  it,  and  to-day  the  girl  was  broken  and  her 
situation  he  could  hardly  surmise;  his  debt  re- 
mained unpaid.  One  evening  something  did  reach 
him.  The  head  gardener  desired  particularly  to 
speak  with  the  master;  and  through  a  conversa- 
tion in  which  a  sale-list,  seeds,  coveted  hot-house 
a^nd  garden  stock  figured  as  accessories,  Norman 
gathered  the  supreme  information  that  Mrs.  Trel- 
yon  had  fled,  and  that  South  Downs  was  up  for 
auction. 

What  then  of  Rosalie  ?    A  creature  so  accidental, 

so  unanchored  to  family  or  fortune,  must  needs  be 

in    straits.      To   possess  a  well-stocked  purse,  to 

know  that  commonest  honesty  pointed  to  a  hand- 

400 


Cold  Winter. 

• 

some  settlement,  and  to  feel  in  every  nerve  that 
the  notion  was  rejected,  was  cruel  as  a  snake-bite. 
Before  all  other  things,  Norman  told  himself  he 
was  a  gentleman. 

Presently  slow  currents  of  gossip  left  again  a 
shred  at  his  door.  Rosalie  had  been  removed  to 
more  convenient  rooms  in  a  house  on  the  common. 
Eliza  Armstrong  hung  over  the  place  immovable, 
but  no  one  called  or  was  permitted  to  enter  save 
Evan  and  the  doctor ;  and  it  was  Evan  who  paid 
the  bills.  He  knew  what  that  meant ;  the  slender 
resources  of  Evan  and  Eliza,  or  possibly  Evan  alone 
with  borrowed  money,  nourished  the  dying  Rosalie. 
The  pride  of  the  young  engineer  had  lifted  the 
beloved  woman  to  a  citadel  of  its  own,  and  no 
siege  of  Norman's  could  touch  that  barred  door. 

From  this  repulsing  world  Norman  had  no  refuge 
save  his  wife.  Home  was  a  place  swept  and  gar- 
nished, his  treasure-house  was  rifled  of  dream- 
pictures,  but  the  foot-fall  of  a  woman,  her  hand, 
her  eyes  remained.  It  was  a  strange  welcome  that 
met  him  when  he  returned  to  it  —  ever  new,  ever 
mingling  despair  with  sweetness.  The  face  was 
changed,  the  very  children  saw  it.  Ted  put  his 
finger  wonderingly  in  the  hollow  of  her  cheek; 
Connie  smoothed  the  wrinkle  in  her  brow. 
"What's  up  with  mother?"  wrote  Ronald  from 
the  sea.  They  began  to  mingle  care  of  her  with 
their  dependence.  But  how  should  they  guess 
that  the  care  of  that  eldest  child  of  all,  the  sup- 
26  401 


Life  the  Accuser. 

« 

porting  of  him  under  his  burden,  was  the  cause  of 
the  sapping  of  her  strength. 

One  evening  Norman  read  in  the  paper  of  the 
departure  of  the  Suez  expedition.  To  learn  it 
thus  was  bare  to  dreadfulness,  but  Constantia  strove 
to  help  him  with  eyes  of  piteous  courage.  He 
could  not  bear  to  see  her,  and  rose  and  left  the 
room  and  went  out  into  the  night,  turning  into 
the  fir-wood. 

The  night  was  clear  and  frosty  and  still ;  stars 
were  in  the  sky,  but  there  was  no  moon.  The 
wood  was  a  fairy  enchanted  place  raised  by  the 
cold  breath  of  the  season  to  evanescent  but  in- 
comparable beauty.  Norman  passed  down  the 
broadest  of  the  paths;  on  either  side  stood  the 
giant  pines,  —  pillars  of  ebony  and  silver  lifting 
pale  arches  overhead.  Within  this  spanning  of 
majestic  silence,  nature's  innocent  wild  things 
nestled  in  winter  slumber,  a  child's  song  hushed 
through  a  solemn  service.  He  reached  the  gate 
where  Evan  had  first  seen  Rosalie ;  the  road  be- 
yond was  lonely  as  a  moor  at  night,  by  day  but 
one  person  within  the  hour  would  pass;  every- 
where he  found  about  him  the  same  unbroken 
stillness.  There  was  a  fallen  trunk,  and  he  sat 
down  upon  it.  The  sky  was  deep  and  clear; 
Orion  shone  out  above  him,  and  the  remote  rays 
of  myriad  worlds  fell  towards  him  in  their  sub- 
lime irrelevancy. 

And  then  he  found  that  he  could  marshal  his 
402 


Cold  Winter. 

thoughts  no  more,  but  the  drift  of  them  lodged 
at  a  sense  of  failure  in  his  life,  and  then  that  be- 
came less  and  less  a  definite  idea  and  more  and 
more  a  ghastly  feeling.  He  could  not  stir  be- 
cause of  it,  but  sat  on  the  fallen  trunk  and  gazed 
at  the  frosted  pines  and  the  stars  that  shone  be- 
tween and  above ;  then  even  this  misery  dwindled, 
and  he  saw  it  as  a  thing  in  flight,  within  his  mind, 
vanishing,  the  back  parts  towards  him,  over  the 
far  edges.  That  too  had  left  him  alone. 

He  was  left  alone  in  a  world  that  was  nothing 
but  a  vast  empty  plain  in  which  he,  solitary, 
walked,  while  the  deed  which  he  had  done  lay  in 
his  hand  as  a  book  does,  and  he  read  in  it.  The 
leaves  of  the  book  turned  over  of  themselves  as  he 
went,  and  each  one  held  a  thought.  The  thoughts 
were  not  written  in  the  language  that  he  knew ; 
they  were  not  thoughts  that  went  in  words,  they 
sank  as  influences  to  the  heart  of  hearts.  He  read 
in  the  book  for  an  hour  of  the  night  amid  the 
frosty  stillness,  his  head  bent,  his  eyes  half  closed. 
He  had  forgotten  every  other  part  of  his  existence. 
At  last  the  book  opened  on  a  page  where  there 
were  letters,  and  the  letters  had  a  voice ;  he  did 
not  know  whether  the  voice  was  outside  him  as 
a  thunder-clap,  or  whether  it  was  a  whisper  from 
within.  He  had  been  long  alone  on  the  world  of 
the  plain  and  had  travelled  far,  though  but  an 
hour  of  mortal  time  had  passed.  The  edge  of  the 
plain  was  a  place  of  clouds,  of  desperation  and 
403 


Life  the  Accuser. 

hair-breadth  escapes.  The  plain  was  called  Earth 
by  men,  and  as  he  neared  it  and  stumbled  head- 
long over  the  brink  of  it,  the  book  of  the  fact 
vanished,  and  the  words  of  the  voice  were  smitten 
out  of  his  mind. 

He  started  to  his  feet  and  found  that  he  was 
alone,  and  that  silence  still  enfolded  him.  And 
then  that  which  he  had  heard  and  seen  in  his  deep 
spiritual  dream  rolled  back  clearly  upon  him, 
bringing  at  last  to  the  ears  of  his  mind  news  of 
himself,  and  as  one  who  is  overwhelmed  by  a  sud- 
den and  awful  thing  heard  for  the  first  time,  he 
gave  a  terrific  cry ;  it  rang  through  the  frost- 
becalmed  place  and  returned  through  the  frosted 
colonnades  in  a  trembling  of  remorseless  echoes. 
And  upon  that  a  gentle  eerie  sound  of  fallen 
snow. 


404 


Cold  Winter. 


EPILOGUE. 
ELIZA'S  DIARY,  1888. 

"  FROM  all  I  have  watched  and  learned  two 
lessons  I  have  taken  acutely  to  my  heart.  The 
first  is  the  inadequacy  of  any  theory  of  religious 
or  philosophical  consolation  to  touch  the  agonies 
of  life  or  to  explain  them ;  the  second  is  the 
almost  magic  power  of  patient  will  so  to  play 
upon  the  face  of  circumstance  as  to  modify  it, 
until  even  disaster  becomes  under  its  mastering 
touch  something  that  is  not  disaster. 

"  Of  that  event  —  and  it  changed  life  for  all  of 
us  —  I  find  the  lasting  pathos  to  lie  in  the  unwel- 
come child.  I  have  watched  it  grow  for  over  ten 
years  now;  Evan  bade  me  care  for  it  should  it 
live  when  it  was  born.  Rosalie  never  spoke  of  it, 
and  she  passed  away  the  day  after  its  birth.  It 
was  when  she  died  that  I  knew  how  merciful 
death  could  be.  The  child  is  a  puny,  melancholy 
thing,  of  a  timid,  reticent  nature,  with  a  type  of 
face  carrying  a  surprisingly  small  impress  of  beauty 
and  none  of  breed,  but  it  is  lovable  because  cling- 
ing, gentle,  and  serviceable.  Irene  helps  me  in 
the  care  of  it. 

405 


Life  the  Accuser. 

"  When  winter  comes  back  —  as  now  —  and 
brings  snow  with  it,  it  brings  also  to  me  the  mem- 
ory of  Rosalie.  The  clearest  recollection  of  her 
face  is  on  that  dread  evening  when  she  burst  upon 
Evan  and  me  standing  together  in  the  snow- 
covered  road  close  to  South  Downs.  He  had  told 
me  where  he  was  going ;  I  guessed  the  rest,  and 
had  heart  to  wish  him  well.  And  then  came  that 
strange  weak  failing  step  and  Rosalie's  face  in  be- 
tween us.  To  the  last  I  remained  by  her  side. 
Evan  trusted  me.  How  the  memory  of  his  face  in 
those  last  weeks  obliterates  the  memory  of  the 
face  I  knew  before  !  Every  day  he  used  to  call ; 
he  would  speak  very  little,  and  that  is  perhaps  why 
his  lightest  word  seems  written  on  my  heart.  Be- 
tween the  two  suffering  creatures  I  stood  as  sole 
medium — Rosalie  dying  with  shut  lips  and  her 
face  to  the  wall,  and  Evan  brief,  stern,  thinking  of 
every  possible  want  and  speaking  of  her  always  to 
the  doctor  as  his  "future  wife."  But  intercourse 
between  them  there  was  none ;  he  came  to  rec- 
ognise that  it  was  vain  to  hope  or  ask  for  it ;  the 
utmost  was  a  message  sent  through  me.  One 
day  there  was  something;  he  seemed  to  know  it 
by  my  face,  and  that  I  shrank  from  my  errand. 

ft '  Don't  try  and  spare  me,  Eliza,'  said  he ;  '  it 
does  n't  matter ;  I  can't  feel  any  more.' 

"And  then  I  had  to  repeat  her  words  —  'Tell 
him  when  he  comes  that  it  was  my  own  fault ;  say 
that  I  was  to  blame,  that  I  was  the  aggressor.' 
406 


Cold  Winter. 

"  Rosalie  never  explained  further ;  she  said  those 
words  and  left  us  to  find  the  meaning.  She  and 
I  had  no  great  talks.  She  died  undefeated,  carry- 
ing her  own  burden,  accepting  it.  Evan  and  I 
understood  that  she  spoke  those  words  —  and  we 
believed  them  to  be  in  a  sense  true  —  as  the 
single  reparation  she  could  offer  for  her  share  in 
the  deed  which  had  wrought  such  havoc.  That 
was  my  thought :  I  am  sure  that  it  was  also  Evan's. 
I  remember  how  he  took  the  message.  He  said 
nothing,  but  walked  from  me  turning  his  back. 
Presently  he  approached  again,  and  I  do  not  for- 
get the  face  he  carried.  Heaven  send  that  such 
a  look  may  never  lie  there  again  ! 

"  '  Yes,'  he  said,  '  yes  !  An  ignorant  girl  and  an 
experienced  man  !  It  is  as  though  a  child  had 
run  to  one  and  claimed  protection,  or  a  country 
lad  trusted  one  with  his  purse.  Do  not  think  of 
it  but  in  that  way,  Eliza  ! ' 

"  I  said  —  '  Be  sure  of  this,  Evan  —  that  I  love 
Rosalie.' 

"  He  seemed  comforted  for  a  moment ;  it  was 
little,  but  it  was  all  I  could  do. 

"  Meanwhile  he  worked  with  all-devouring  en- 
ergy at  the  Suez  scheme.  Between  the  intervals 
of  his  visits  he  spent  his  time  in  preparation.  Oc- 
casionally he  absented  himself  on  a  flying  journey 
to  some  one  of  the  provincial  towns  where  his 
machines  were  in  process  of  making,  to  superin- 
tend the  construction  of  some  particular  part,  or 
407 


Life  the  Accuser. 

to  be  present  at  a  final  trial.  In  getting  to- 
gether the  workmen  he  made  it  his  own  business 
to  interview  and  select  them ;  he  showed  himself 
thorough  to  the  smallest  point.  He  sought  the 
advice  and  criticism  of  every  expert  engineer  he 
could  meet  with ;  and  I  afterwards  heard  that  his 
industry  and  tact  had  won  him  honour  from  both 
the  Colonial  and  Foreign  Offices.  I  knew  that 
Evan  would  allow  no  personal  grief  to  mar  the 
task  which  he  had  set  himself  in  life,  but  I  mar- 
velled at  the  heart  he  put  into  it  now,  and  the 
strength  he  found  within  himself  to  do  it. 

"  I  came  to  understand  in  the  end.  The  ex- 
pedition sailed  weeks  before  Rosalie's  death.  He 
made  all  possible  arrangements  for  her  and  left 
me  to  carry  them  out ;  before  he  sailed  she  had 
become  too  ill  to  know  whether  he  stayed  or  went. 
Of  his  advice  to  her  she  was  unconscious.  One 
day  he  said  briefly  to  me  —  <  When  she  is  asleep, 
Eliza.'  We  had  to  speak  so  little.  And  I  watched 
my  opportunity  and  beckoned  him  in.  He  stepped 
very  softly  and  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed  and 
watched  the  face  on  the  pillow.  The  moments 
seemed  scarely  to  breathe.  He  stood  there  very 
still  and  very  long.  I  watched  his  face  ;  there 
was  a  chill  in  his  brow  newly  come  there  which 
did  not  alter,  but  for  the  rest  there  was  a  clearing 
as  though  with  the  strength  of  some  intense  reso- 
lution, as  though  he  were  swearing  faith  fast  and 
deep  to  something  known  between  them  and  only 
408 


Cold  Winter. 

so  known,  and  of  which  he  would  never  in  his 
life  let  go.  There  was  no  quiver  in  his  face,  the 
tenderness  of  it  was  not  of  the  kind  that  runs  to 
emotion ;  when  it  was  time  to  go  he  breathed  one 
deep  sigh  and  turned  to  go.  And  all  the  while 
the  face  on  the  pillow  had  lain  unconscious  of 
what  had  hung  over  it.  Me  he  had  forgotten ;  I 
never  said  good-bye  to  Evan.  And  since  that  I 
have  not  seen  him. 

"  But  I  think  of  fate  as  having  been  very  merci- 
ful to  me,  for  I  stand  on  the  same  planet  with 
him  —  and  he  writes.  Africa  remains  his  field  of 
work,  and  now  it  is  the  south.  Long  since  I  ceased 
to  open  his  letters  with  hope  of  hearing  of  his 
return  —  nothing  of  that  sort  comes.  But  I  have 
his  friendship ;  the  letters,  with  the  remittances 
for  the  child,  reach  me  regularly ;  I  know  what 
his  work  is,  and  the  place  where  he  is  working. 
Gradually  I  find  that  the  deep  stern  melancholy 
is  dropping  out  of  his  letters,  they  are  filled  with 
the  zest  of  work  and  active  living.  Sometimes  I 
wonder  if  he  means  me  to  carry  news  of  him  to 
Constantia ;  but  from  the  night  that  Rosalie  was 
struck  down  no  mention  of  the  Manor  House  has 
escaped  his  lips  or  pen. 

"  The  Manor  House  !  That  is  another  life-long 
problem.  Sometimes  I  think  one  thing,  some- 
times another;  but  all  my  pondering  does  not 
bring  me  beyond  summing  up  in  the  end  with  : 
'So  it  happened,'  and  no  more.  Then  I  ask 
409 


Life  the  Accuser. 

myself  what  claim  have  we  to  understand  the 
working  of  our  own  hands?  Neither  our  goodness 
nor  our  wickedness  seems  quite  to  belong  to  us. 
The  very  faithfulness  and  sincerity  of  true  men 
and  women  have  this  additional  strain,  —  they 
have  to  be  true  in  face  of  an  average  mediocrity 
which  takes  their  faithfulness  and  sincerity  for 
smallness  or  duplicity. 

"  At  times  I  wish  that  fate  could  have  removed 
me  and  the  child  from  the  near  proximity  of  Con- 
stantia;  but  when  Gilbert  went  to  Canada,  and 
Sylvia  was  married,  and  old  cousin  John  had 
found  Edward  a  situation  as  agent  for  Moonshine 
Soap,  it  seemed  natural  for  mother  and  me  to  take 
the  little  house  by  the  church,  and  not  far  from 
Irene.  Constantia  calls  sometimes  and  sees  the 
child ;  she  is  changed,  but  bears  a  noble  serenity. 
I  would  hide  the  child  from  her,  but  that  she  does 
not  allow.  Where  sorrow  has  been  so  deep,  I 
think  the  details  of  it  cause  no  suffering.  Gossip, 
too,  is  forgetting  how  clearly  once  it  guessed  the 
truth,  and  the  one  person  who  never  betrays  by 
glance  or  word  that  he  knows  the  child's  paternity 
is  Norman. 

"  More  than  ten  years  of  time  have  passed  since  I 
saw  Evan  !  And  yet  I  am  waiting  for  a  sight  of 
his  face.  So  long  as  he  lives  at  least  the  world  is 
homelike ;  it  is  my  home  because  of  him,  and 
were  he  dead  my  feeling  of  home  would  be  beyond. 
Shall  I  see  him?  Will  he  ever  come  back?  A 
410 


Cold  Winter. 

night  or  two  ago  I  had  a  dream ;  it  was  nothing 
to  chronicle  save  that  Evan  was  at  the  end  of 
it.  I  had  walked  a  long  time  in  a  dim  place  of 
changing  scenes,  when  suddenly  I  found  myself 
at  the  top  of  a  great  staircase ;  and  Evan  was  be- 
low me  hastening  up  it.  At  first  I  could  only  see 
his  bowed  head,  but  he  raised  it,  and  then  the 
face  was  clear  to  my  eyes  as  though  sunshine  fell 
upon  it.  And  he  smiled." 


THE   END. 


411 


JRecent  fiction 

PUBLISHED  BY  EDWARD  ARNOLD 

7O  FIFTH  AVENUE,    NEW  YORK 
? 

ACROSS  AN  ULSTER  BOG 

BY  M.   HAMILTON 

Author  of  "  A  Self -Denying  Ordinance  " 

I2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.00 


Mr.  Hamilton,  in  "  Across  an  Ulster  Bog,"  gives  us  one  of  the 
stories  of  Irish  life  truest  to  nature  of  the  many  we  have  read  'of 
late  years.  .  .  .  The  narrative  never  drags ;  we  are  carried  on  irre- 
sistibly from  opening  to  finish.  —  The  Nation. 

The  author  writes  with  a  studious  knowledge  of  people  and 
surroundings ;  and  the  peculiarly  local  coloring  in  sceneries,  traits, 
and  conversations,  as  well  as  the  pathos  of  description,  render  the 
story  one  of  unquestionable  interest.  —  Boston  Courier. 

M.  Hamilton  has  already  written  one  Irish  story  of  some  prom- 
ise, and  now  comes  "Across  an  Ulster  Bog,"  an  admirable  piece 
of  work,  far  in  advance  of  the  first.  —  Argonaut. 

One  of  the  strangest  and  saddest  little  stories  I  have  read  in 
many  a  day.  —  Commercial  Advertiser. 

There  is  much  of  the  strength  and  intense  interest  of  Haw- 
thorne's "Scarlet  Letter"  in  this  tale;  and  the  local  coloring  of 
the  story,  and  the  pictures  of  Irish  life  and  character,  are  skil- 
fully drawn. —  Boston  Home  Journal. 


GEORGE'S  MOTHER 

BY 

STEPHEN  CRANE 
Large  i6mo,  192  pages,  cloth,  75  cents 


The  book  is  strong  and  sure  to  attract  attention.  —  The  Book  Buyer. 

Mr.  Crane  sets  forth  the  various  phases  of  the  tragedy  in  clear, 
correct,  and  pathetic  fashion.  His  personal  familiarity  with  the  life  he 
describes  can  scarcely  be  intimate.  The  surface  of  this,  the  general 
outlines,  he  must  have  learned  with  his  own  eyes;  but  the  minor  things, 
the  really  impressive  touches  he  gives  in  the  story,  we  fancy  were 
obtained  through  his  own  imagination,  —  a  faculty  which,  in  "The  Red 
Badge  of  Courage,"  enabled  him  to  secure  from  soldiers  admiration  for 
the  battle  scenes  which  he  described  without  ever  having  seen  a  battle 
himself.  —  New  York  Times. 

"George's  Mother,"  by  Stephen  Crane,  is  almost  as  wonderful  a 
book  in  its  way  as  'The  Red  Badge  of  Courage."  —  Bookseller. 

Mr.  Crane's  artistic  sense  is  untrammelled  by  the  faintest  suspicion  of 
didacticism.  He  does  not  pose  as  a  philosopher,  or  a  moralist,  or  a 
social  reformer.  He  respects  his  own  genius  too  thoroughly  to  covet 
any  of  these  distinctions.  He  reverences  nature  too  deeply  to  distort 
her  creations  for  the  sake  of  the  best  of  theories.  He  understands  the 
human  heart,  whether  it  be  that  of  the  boy  seeking  his  pleasures,  or  of 
the  mother  going  to  the  prayer  meeting.  He  has  had  the  courage  to  be 
the  first  to  apply  to  American  life  the  methods  of  French  naturalism, 
and  the  result  has  been,  not  an  imitation,  but  a  triumph  of  originality. 
His  pictures  are  more  life-like  than  those  of  M.  Zola,  for  their  perspec- 
tive is  truer,  and  unlike  those  of  the  foreign  master,  they  are  irridescent 
with  a  play  of  delicate  humor.  —  The  Stylus. 

The  rugsed  power,  the  picturesque  descriptions,  the  independent 
choice  of  words  that  give  to  his  sentences  a  suggestion  of  recklessness, 
are  all  in  "  George's  Mother,"  as  they  are  in  other  works  by  this  young 
man.  The  people  we  meet  in  "  George's  Mother,"  we  have  known  for 
years,  but  we  have  passed  them  carelessly,  just  because  we  have  known 
them  so  well,  without  recognizing  in  them  the  humanity  which  shines  so 
clearly  on  the  canvas  that  bears  Mr.  Crane's  clever  brush-strokes.  — 
Commercial  A  dvertiser. 


WORTH   WHILE 

BY 

F.  F.  MONTRESOR 

Author  of  "  The  One  Who  Looked  On"  "Into  the 
Highways    and  Hedges"  etc. 

i6mo,  cloth,  75  cents 


Miss  F.  F.  Montre"sor  has  written  some  excellent  stories. 
"  Worth  While "  is  one  in  which  true  self-abnegation  is  pictured 
in  a  strong,  quiet  style,  very  attractive  to  the  reader  who  can 
discern  beauty  and  detest  sensation.  The  possibilities  of  pathos 
are  great,  and  the  author's  restraint  is  admirable.  —  Christian 
Advocate. 

To  my  mind  Miss  Montre*sor's  "  Worth  While"  is  the  best 
short  story  written  by  a  woman.  .  .  .  Every  page  breathes  the 
gentle  womanliness  of  sacrifice  and  love.  .  .  .  No  fiction  has  come 
to  my  desk  this  summer  which  I  can  so  heartily  recommend.  — 
Vance  Thompson,  in  Commercial  Advertiser. 

These  two  stories  prove  that  Miss  Montresor  is  one  of  the  most 
promising  of  the  young  novelists.  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

In  "Worth  While"  Miss  Montresor  has  given  ^  —  literature. 
The  writer  has  caught  the  very  spirit,  the  essence  of  life  and  love. 
All  that  is  dramatic,  all  that  is  pathetic,  all  that  is  deeply  and  un- 
avoidably tragic  in  reality,  she  has  crowded  into  the  two  short 
stories  which  this  volume  contains;  and  how  simply  it  is  done! 
With  what  temperance,  what  utter  absence  of  pose !  It  is  just  here 
that  her  power  lies.  —  The  Stylus. 


THE  NEW  VIRTUE 

BY 

MRS.   OSCAR   BERRINGER 

i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00 


A  striking  story  and  well  written.  —  Rochester  Democrat. 

The  book  cannot  fail  to  be  widely  discussed.  —  The  Denver 
Times. 

Mrs.  Derringer  is  better  known  on  the  stage  than  in  literature. 
This  is  perhaps  her  first  venture  into  novel  writing  ;  but  she  has 
hit  upon  a  theme  which  will  make  her  book  talked  of.  There  is 
much  meat  for  controversy  in  it,  and  the  cleverness  with  which  she 
has  put  her  question  will  warrant  a  fair  hearing.  In  spite  of  the 
plot,  the  tone  of  the  story  is  moral.  Vice  is  never  planted  before 
one  in  gay  colors.  When  it  stalks  into  a  chapter,  it  is  somber,  sad, 
and  foreboding.  The  sins  are  lost  in  obscurity,  covered  over  in 
mystery.  "  The  New  Virtue  "  is  a  wholesome  book,  and  suggests 
a  fund  of  worldly  wisdom.  —  Chicago  Record. 

Mrs.  Berringer  has  put  into  plain,  relentless  prose  one  of  those 
tragedies  which  sometimes  arise  through  the  accepted  idea  that,  to 
secure  a  beautiful  purity  and  innocence,  a  young  girl  should  be 
kept  from  all  knowledge  of  the  physiological  mysteries  of  being, 
and  demonstrates  in  the  telling  that  when  a  woman  sets  out  to 
handle  such  topics,  she  can  equal  Zola  or  Balzac  in  frank  speaking. 
Troy  Press. 


decent  fiction 

PUBLISHED  BY  EDWARD  ARNOLD 

70    FIFTH    AVENUE,   NEW    YORK 


HADJIRA:    A  Turkish  Love  Story 

By  «ADALET" 
Cloth,  large  izmo,  $1.50 


This  handsomely  printed  volume  is  reported  as  the  literary  work 
of  a  young  Turkish  lady  who,  from  necessity,  writes  under  a  nom 
de  flume.  The  manuscript  comes  to  the  American  publisher  in 
English  in  her  own  handwriting.  It  is  marked  for  its  literary 
elegance.  Besides  being  a  very  charming  love  story,  it  reveals 
life  in  the  Turkish  harem,  and  the  manners  and  customs  of  the 
Turkish  people,  and  in  this  sense  it  is  profoundly  interesting  and 
instructive.  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

Intensely  interesting  and  well  written.  —  Boston  Home  Journal. 

This  book  is  unique.  .  .  .  The  story  is  a  portrayal  of  Turkish 
domestic  life,  —  a  minute  study,  in  fact,  of  the  harem.  .  .  ,  The 
simple  excellence  of  the  style  gives  it  attractiveness.  —  Bookman. 

The  story  is  really  a  remarkable  one.  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

There  is  a  quality  of  simplicity  about  the  book  which  is  one  of 
its  attractions.  —  Buffalo  Express. 

"  Hadjira  "  is  a  decided  novelty  in  the  field  of  literature.  — 
Brooklyn  Eagle. 

It  is  an  extraordinary  work.  —  Home  Journal. 


A  RELUCTANT  EVANGELIST, 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 

BY 

ALICE  SPINNER 

Author  of  "  A  Study  in  Color,"  "  Lucilla"  etc. 

i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50 


The  author  has  always  a  story  to  tell.  However  slight  its  inci- 
dents, she  makes  it  interesting,  while  in  several  she  condenses  into 
a  few  pages  a  whole  hie  tragedy.  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 


THE  BAYONET  THAT  CAME  HOME 

BY  N.  W.  WILLIAMS 
I2mo,  cloth,  $i  25 


The  story  is  tragic  and  told  with  earnestness.  The  local  color  is 
produced  with  considerable  vividness.  — Detroit  Free  Press. 

The  work  is  good,  virile,  distinctive  —  something  of  which  there 
was  a  want  and  which  may  well  prompt  other  efforts  in  a  like 
direction. 

The  reader  is  warmly  recommended  to  get  this  book  for  himself 
and  to  make  his  acquaintance  with  it  at  first  hand. 

Mr.  Williams  is  the  author  also  of  "  Tales  and  Sketches  of 
Modern  Greece,"  and  his  style  shows  the  enriching  effects  of  local 
study.  It  has  the  Spartan  simplicity  and  terseness,  with  much  of 
the  music  and  nearly  all  the  power  of  delineation  and  color,  which 
one  may  expect  in  Anglo-Saxon  prose.  —  Commercial  Advertiser. 


THE 
DEMAGOGUE  AND  LADY  PHAYRE 

BY  WILLIAM  J.   LOCKE 
I2mo,  cloth,  $1.00 


A  strong  and  powerful  story,  and  deserving  of  a  conspicuous 
place  in  the  fiction  of  to-day.  —  New  York  Times. 

It  is  not  our  custom  to  praise  in  superlatives  ;  therefore  our 
conviction,  which  we  hasten  to  express,  that  the  author  of  "The 
Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre"  is  a  writer  of  exceptional  capacity, 
may  be  taken  at  its  full  value.  We  hardly  recollect  to  have  come 
across  so  capable  a  book  of  its  kind  since  the  sensation  made  by 
"The  Green  Carnation"  died  away;  and  the  present  story  is  well 
worthy  of  a  place  in  the  same  series.  The  conversations  are  up  to 
a  mark  that  only  falls  a  step  or  two  short  of  brilliancy,  and  there  is 
a  certainty  in  the  whole  treatment  that  gives  promise  of  excellent 
work  in  the  future.  Moreover,  and  it  is  a  point  worth  noting  in 
the  society  novel,  the  author,  in  his  pursuit  of  dramatic  effect, 
does  not  forget  his  English.  The  style  is  good  throughout.  — 
London  Literary  World. 


INTERLUDES 

BY    MAUD    OXENDEN 
lamo,  cloth,  $i  50 


A  series  of  short  stories,  so  dependent  upon  one  another  as  to 
form  almost  a  continuous  narrative.  Miss  Oxenden  shows  a  pro- 
found knowledge  of  those  conflicting  emotions  which  inexorably 
produce  soul  tragedies.  Her  style  is  strong,  virile,  convincing. 


A  MASK  AND  A  MARTYR 

BY 

E.  LIVINGSTON  PRESCOTT 

Author  of  "  The  Apotheosis  of  Mr.  Tyrawley 

i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50 


Here  we  have  a  story  which  rivets  the  attention  from  beginning 
to  end.  It  is  a  powerful  and  tragic  book.  —  Liverpool  Mercury. 

The  author  gives  us  a  fine  story  in  the  best  sense,  which  will 
command  a  wide  reading  and  provoke  uniform  delight.  The  page, 
type,  and  general  creation  of  the  book,  in  the  mechanical  sense, 
leaves  nothing  to  be  desired.  —  Boston  Courier. 

11  This  is  a  novel  by  a  comparatively  new  writer,  which  merits  a 
high  meed  of  praise  from  critics.  The  character  of  the  man,  his 
struggles,  his  patience,  his  suffering,  are  portrayed  with  a  degree 
of  sympathy  and  understanding  that  make  the  book  one  of  the 
most  pathetic  that  was  ever  written. 


ONE  OF  GOD'S  DILEMMAS:   A  Novel 

BY  ALLEN  UPWARD 

Author  of  "A  Crown  of  Straw" 

,  cloth,  $1.00 


The  author  has  written  a  novel  which  cannot  fail  to  interest. 
The  defeated  aims  of  life,  so  dependent  upon  human  caprice  or 
misunderstanding,  form  tragedies  which  seem  inevitable.  The 
character  of  Etienne  Bere,  about  whom  the  story  builds  itself, 
shows  that  the  author  has  an  intelligent  and  sympathetic  knowl- 
edge of  a  boy's  character. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OP  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


NOV  121 

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LD  21-100m-7,'33 

YB  73531 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


